


The Fire Escape

by DennisCrumb



Category: Split (2016)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, Physical Abuse, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-03
Updated: 2017-03-24
Packaged: 2018-09-27 17:21:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10036028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DennisCrumb/pseuds/DennisCrumb
Summary: Casey just wants to be left alone, seeking seclusion out on the fire escape when she meets Dennis, her new neighbor.





	1. Meet & Greet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fill for the Split Kink Meme.
> 
> Casey is a troubled teenager. Her parents are dead, her uncle is abusive (let's make him "only" physically and/or verbally abusive, please), the teachers hate her and her classmates avoid her. She has no friends, and things are not looking up in the future.  
> Then a mysterious man moves into the neighbouring house/apartment and Casey falls in love on top of all that.
> 
> So: teenage angst, home troubles and age difference problems. Possibly a happy end?
> 
> Bonus: if there's first time sex  
> Bonus 2: if Dennis is more nervous about it than Casey

“ _Casey_ …” her art teacher, Mrs. Murphy, begins in that prepared, exasperated tone all teachers have when about to deal with a Problem Student: it’s directed more often than not, at herself. “We’re getting into _groups of three_ now.”

“I’m fine working by myself, thanks,” Casey responds, flat and quiet. She briefly glances up at Mrs. Murphy who's sitting behind her desk while defiantly scooting her own chair closer to the table. The students who sit next to her pointedly give her a wide berth, mutters of ‘' _here we go_ ’' and snickers coming from several in the room.

Mrs. Murphy primly clears her throat and tucks a lock of brown hair behind her ear, the professional smile tugging at the corner of her thin, red lips doesn’t disguise the hard gaze directed at her. “That's not what I asked. We’re getting into groups now,” she repeats, brows rising with faux cordiality.

The chatter in the room about color schemes and homework and weekend parties becomes quieter as the other students glance between the two, already familiar with this routine. Casey does it at least twice a week, sometimes to the same teacher in a row. Normally, it takes anywhere between ten to fifteen minutes to get kicked out of class. Seven minutes on a good day. She knows each of her teacher’s pet peeves by now, it was just knowing when to strike and what to use in her arsenal.

“Why can’t I do it alone?” Casey says nonchalantly, offers a confused smirk. “I don’t see the point of getting into groups when the project is simple." She shrugs.

“Whatever you do, don’t put her in our group,” one girl mumbles and the class laughs.

Casey is unbothered by the whispers and mockery and laughter at this point in her life. She’s used to them ignoring her, other than the ocasionally half assed jabs thrown at her expense by the other students they leave her be. She has embraced her role as a real pain in the ass amongst the teachers and faculty. Even the subsitutes get warnings about her in their notes by this point.

Mrs. Murphy looks disapprovingly around the classroom and places a manicured finger to her lips like they’re in elementary, her smile becoming wider and strained. “That’s enough of that,” she softly adresses her students and waits for them to fall silent.

Mrs. Murphy leans her elbows on the desk and fixes Casey with a more stern glare that loses its luster fairly quickly considering the woman is wearing a lime green blouse. “I am not in the mood today, Casey, please. So you’re either going to find a group, or you’re going straight to the principal’s office- which one?” she asks, her tone brokering no further argument.

Casey merely shrugs again and begins to put her notepad and pencil in her worn, green messenger bag. “Write me a slip then.”

"Finish her _!_ ” Ron, the class clown, coughs into his fist and the class erupts into another fit of laughter.

“Enough!” Mrs. Murphy barks, this time with a short, furious edge that quiets the classroom for good, hardly ever hearing their young and fun art teacher raise her voice. She stands and opens one of the drawers on her desk and grabs a pink slip. She pulls a pen from a jar and points it threateningly at Casey. “I've had about enough of you disrupting my classroom."

"Because I asked to work alone?"

"No, because you seem to have a problem with authority."

Casey scoffs. "Whatever. It was a simple question to a stupid rule."

"For the short time that you are in here you will do as I say-”

“And _I_ said I’m not getting into a fucking group!” Casey snaps.

Mrs. Murphy’s eyes widen and her mouth falls open, stunned. The students share a similar look.

“ _Oh my God_ ,” she hears them whisper, “ _what’s her problem_.”

Casey grabs her messenger bag and pushes back from the table to stand, knocking the chair back in the process. 

“Sit back down!” Mrs. Murphy demands.

“It’s either a group or the principal’s office- pick one!” Casey throws her teacher's own words back.

Mrs. Murphy's entire face turns red and the color lights up all the way down her green blouse. “Detention. After school," she spits out coldly while stalking over, her heels clicking loudly against the tiled floor. She doesn’t even bother to hand Casey the paper, choosing to slam it on the desk between them. “ _Get out of my classroom_.”

“Yeah, that’s what I was trying to do,” Casey snarks, snatching the slip up, making sure to give her teacher who is very visibly upset now a nasty look.

As soon as she steps out of the door and into the corridor she leans against the brick wall and breathes a sigh of relief.

She has detention and that means she won’t have to go home until later now. She won’t have to see Uncle John.

 ///

Casey does her homework in detention while Mrs. Murphy ignores her. Three other teachers come into the art room during her time there, knowing grimaces and pitying looks for their fellow employee.

“Oh, Casey’s here again this week,” they'll say.

“Yeah,” Mrs. Murphy will respond tiredly and loud enough for her to hear, “I was supposed to be meeting my husband for our dinner reservation at that new Italian restaraunt near the mall. Instead I’m stuck here.”

Casey glances up and almost says that you’re supposed to be quiet in detention but she’d already gotten what she wanted today.

A few hours later, Casey's phone goes off persistently in her jacket pocket on the way home. Her fingers tap absently against it whenever it does, cringing with each persistent buzz. Every now and then her plans had faults- as in Uncle John himself. After the fourth call and another single buzz indicating that he’d left a voicemail she pulls the phone out.

“Your art teacher called,” Uncle John sounds angry and exasperated, as usual. "When I get home we’re going to have a talk about that mouth of yours. You pull that shit again and your ass is in big trouble, do you hear me? How do you think your behavior makes me look, huh?”

 _Shit_. Maybe she went too far with Mrs. Murphy today.

///

Casey’s dad had been a kind, soft spoken man with a big smile that could light up the room and a genuine, focused attention that could make you feel special when directed your way.

“That’s how I got a one in a lifetime chance with your mom,” he'd used to say with a fond expression. “I don’t care what anyone else says, Casey, a winning personality and putting in effort to reach your goals is how you get through life. Not lies or money or ugliness or any of that nonsense.”

Unfortunately, her dad’s charming personality had passed down the line to his younger, yet larger and bigger bear of a brother only to be put to use in less than humbling ways.

When her mother had died too young for Casey to barely remember her face and her dad followed her shortly after, both already had some idea in mind about Casey’s bright, successful future. They had saved money and made plans and confided in the few, close family members they had in case anything happened to them that the money would be given to her in allowance, the rest of it put in a bank until her eighteenth birthday.

And when they died it was John who had stepped in with smiles and promises until she was situated into her new home where raising a child was more than he bargained for- no matter the income benefits that came with her. She had gotten in the way of his miserable nights out drinking out at the bar with his equally miserable buddies. She'd cried too loud and talked too much and the cost of her was eating away at his wallet, apparently; not the booze or the women or keeping up appearances.

But her being there did wonders for the extra attention and sympathy thrown his way, being burdened with his dead brother’s little troublemaker. She thinks at some point in their time living together that he began to believe _he_ was the one doing _her_ a favor.

“You could have no one and gotten lost in the system if it wasn’t for _me_ ,” he had reminded her countless times with a self satisfied smile.

It's half past seven when she sluggishly climbs up the stairs to the fifth floor of their quiet, decent looking apartment building. She's in the middle of thinking about a nice, hot shower and what to make for dinner when she closes the apartment door. Turning back around, she notices the figure sitting in the corner and freezes.

"Do you have _any_ idea what time it is,” her uncle says lowly. He rarely screams unless he’s wasted and even then he could be careful. “Where the hell were you, huh?”

“Detention,” Casey says, heading straight for the hallway.

John slams his hand against the nightstand where a bottle of bourbon and a small clutter of beer bottles are, knocking them down on the floor. “After that.”

Casey stops again, tensing up at the noise. “I missed the bus," she sighs, "so I had to walk home. What's the problem?”

John shakes his head. “Don’t lie to me. You were probably out doing something you weren’t supposed to be doing, am I right? It's not enough that you have to get on my nerves but you go and make yourself look like a degenerate at school. To be frank, I am _sick_ and _tired_ of you trying to make me look bad, you should have just called for me to pick you up. And now I’m late for my buddie’s birthday party waiting on you.”

With every word Casey silently fumes and she turns around to fully face him. "I didn’t tell you to be late to your friend's crappy party, now did I?"

John stands up, blocking the only source of light coming from the window behind him. She eyes the small clutter of beer bottles seeping in the carpet which he’ll blame her for too. She stares at him in quiet defiance, refusing to back down even though there were no more words to appease him. It's then that she notices how he sways on his feet and blinks slowly, his chin touching his chest and nostrils flaring. All of which are never a good sign.

"Say that again" he taunts, fists clenching and unclenching. "C'mon, I dare ya."

“I told you I walked home,” she explains, voice wavering as his face splotches red with anger while her own dissipates and is replaced with dread. “I swear-”

John takes a step forward and Casey dashes to her room.

John’s long legs carry him quickly over to her on the same trained feet he uses to hunt animals and he grabs the strap of her bag. She expertly shrugs out of it and heavily collides into her door with a grunt, fumbles with sweaty palms to twist the knob just a fraction and slip inside. John rams like a huffing bull against the door while she tries to close it and she almost loses her balance, teeth gritting and feet slipping against the hardwood as she tries with all her strength to keep him out.

“You ungrateful little _bitch_ ,” he growls, and she could smell the stench of alcohol around him.

“Stop it!” Casey shouts, desperate, the wood groaning and her shoulder aching. She presses a foot to her dresser and grunts, hoping the door doesn’t break under the weight. “Stop! You’re going to break your own door and _you’re_ going to have to pay for it!”

The banging and pushing abruptly halts and the door slams firmly shut as he pulls back. Casey quickly locks it even though he can easily pick it back open if he wants. She hears him call her every name in the book before he stomps off back into the living room and shuts what sounds to be the front door.

His retreating could be a trick, she tells herself. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done so just to get a good laugh. Pressing her ear to the door, she listens for any sign of him still in the hall. She waits for a few minutes until she deems it safe. Casey quickly opens the door, gaze zeroing in on her bag she hurries forward to grab it and escape back into her room.

Casey slides down the door and wipes away the tears rolling down her face. "You're okay," she whispers. "You're okay."

A moment passes where she gets her breathing under control and her hands to stop shaking. She crawls over to her bed where she keeps two bundles underneath: a couple of pillows stuffed inside of a sleeping bag, and two small rugs rolled inside a large, thick blanket.

Standing up, Casey sets the bundles against the wall, unlatches her window, and raises it up. She chucks the items outside along with her messenger bag and looks around her room to check if she's missed anything. The small room is alien to her, there's just a the be and nightstand and study desk that belongs to her uncle more than her. Sighing, Casey slips out.

She shoves the window back down, leaving it open a few centimeters. Now she’s safe. Safe from everyone and everything. John can’t reach her out here, his large frame wouldn’t even allow his shoulders to fit through and climbing five flights of stairs was out of the question. And he can’t call the cops either because it’s not running away. Because of this, he’s threatened more than once about moving somewhere without a fire escape but he’s too lazy and cheap to make promise on that particular threat.

In her opinion, Casey has a pretty nice set up on the landing, she shares it with a slightly larger and unoccupied apartment to her left so she spreads out her things in that area. Only a handful of other people in the building ever use the fire escape: an elderly woman who likes to sit out and knit, a few kids who stay on their landing to do homework or shout things at passerby on the streets, and a few teens from her school who smoke when their parents aren't home.

No one ever comes up on her landing to bother her and the landlord could give less of a shit as long as no one files a complaint. So she throws the colorful rugs over the railing which gives her some modicum of privacy, fans the blanket out on the ground and puts the sleeping bag over it. Satsified, she sits and grabs her headphones and drifts away.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been out there when a light from behind illuminates the landing and wakes her. Realizing it's coming from what's supposed to be an empty apartment she shifts out of the sleeping bag and attempts to peek between the plain, white curtains. She hears someone moving around and she hopes that it's not a family or couple. With a frustrated huff, Casey tilts her head to get a better view and still sees no one.

The curtains fly open and she jumps back with a gasp, startled. Staring back at her was a well built man who looks to be in his thirties with a shaved head and glasses. And then her heart is pounding for different reasons because he's attractive- and not in a boring, conventional way that has the girls at her school easily falling. Her eyes roam over his arms, muscles pronounced in his fit, dark collared shirt as he unlatches the window and pulls it up, brow furrowing. "Who are you and what are you doing out here?” his voice is soft and deep and carries a thick accent. It also sounds very accusing.

“I…I'm your neighbor, I guess?” Casey answers slowly, mind racing, she can't recall seeing him before now or a single box in the hall to indicate someone moving in. "Hi."

"Hi," he echoes tonelessly. The man leans out the window to peek around the fire escape and she leans away instinctively, catching a scent of soap and cologne. His sharp, blue eyes land on her belongings and his frown deepens.

“I just come out here to read or listen to music,” she explains hastily. “But I always use headphones and I don’t make any noise.” It’s the first time in a long time where an adult other than her uncle has made her this nervous, but the fire escape was the only safe space she had and if it was taken away from her she didn’t know what she’d do.

The man is silent for a long time, his eyes flickering back and forth in thought, tongue darting out to his bottom lip. She fidgets awkwardly and her gaze drifts past him into the apartment, it appears that he's alone and does, indeed, have a few boxes in the corner. 

"That's- that's, uh, fine," he stammers, catching her attention again, his eyes quickly averting when she looks back at him. He runs a hand over his head.

Casey's face grows warm as she realizes he's been staring at her while she was being nosy.

"Okay," she says, just realizing he'd given her permission to stay. "Thanks

The man nods and ducks backs in. "Just keep the landing and the area neat, please." He waits for her to nod before shutting his window, locks it with a loud click, and closes the curtains.

“ _Okay_ ,” she mutters under her breath at his weird, subdued manner.  

///

The rest of the week flies by smoothly other than Casey making it her mission to piss Mrs. Murphy off more than usual for calling her uncle.

She hardly sees her uncle in those following days which is all she can ask for out of life until she graduates in six months, her eighteenth birthday following shortly after. John’s already out the door for work when she goes to school and at the bar when she comes home.

The quiet, reclusive man next door is often at the forefront of her thoughts and she tells herself it's out of boredom more than anything, which is only partially true. She finds him a bit odd and it makes her even more curious about him. Like if he's just sprung up out of necessity rather than love because he doesn't seem to have a social life with friends or family; not one that calls anyway. She hasn't seen him since that first encounter to check but she's heard his vaccuum plenty of times, and he's put a white, empty vase in front of his window. She suspects he just goes to work and comes back home. He minds his own business and doesn’t bother anyone, she both envies and feels happy for him. 

///

Casey hates weekends because that means sharing the same space with her uncle which feels suffocating despite hiding away in her room. There is nowhere to go where she won't be surrounded by people, not even the public library was peaceful enough. Hunger eventually wins when afternoon rolls around so she ventures to the kitchen, and it's like he's waiting for her, sitting in his favorite chair with glassy eyes watching television.

“I’m having a couple of buddies over in a few minutes so you’ll need to stay in your room.” Uncle John talks to her slowly, like a child. "Or go out for a bit. You never go out anywhere."

Casey huffs a bitter laugh considering her uncle never lets her go anywhere without breathing down her neck and harassing her with a barrage of check-in texts. She opens the fridge which is currently devoid of anything besides cases of beer, four day old Chinese takeout, and last night's dry steak. “You’re not going to the bar?”

“Nope.”

"If you want me to leave, I need some money for the bus and food.”

“Didn’t I give you money last week?”

“Yeah, I spent all of _my_ money.”

John harumphs and makes a big show of standing from his chair to shuffle past her to his room and unlocks his door. She eyes the small, steel safe next to his bed where he keeps his ammo and shells, his wallet, and her allowance. Casey rolls her eyes while he pointedly takes his time to get the money, lock the safe, lock his door, and come back. "Here's forty. Pick up some chips and dip while you're out." Casey reaches for the money and he pulls back. "Did you hear me?"

"Yes."

She tries to grab it again and he pulls back, doing it two more times before he relents with a chuckle. “Yeah, very mature,” she mutters, turning around.

John hauls her up by the collar of her jacket, her head snapping back at the force and neck burning as her shirt had scratched roughly against her skin. Casey squeezes her eyes shut and presses her lips together to stop from crying out but that doesn’t stop him from throwing her into her room, her body clipping the desk chair as she falls, the chair coming down on top of her. 

She stays frozen on the ground, shocked, as he looms above her. She knows that you don’t make a move or sound when a predator has you in its sight. “Watch your _fucking mouth_ when talking to me,” he snarls. “I am _not_ one of your teachers.” He slams the door shut, the contents on the desk rattling noisily.

Casey shakily inhales and curls in on herself, her throat closing up painfully as she silently sobs. It feels like her chest is caving in and no matter how hard she clutches at it the pain only burrows deeper. Shame and self hatred hits her first, for being caught off guard like that. And then a darker feeling coiling inside towards her uncle, far more malevolent than can be described with a simple word such as hate; those thoughts are what picks her up off the floor.

The first few guests arrive and she hears John loudly greet them, warm and exuberantly as he does everyone else he’s ever known. If he didn’t put on such an convincing act towards everyone they know then maybe things would be more tolerable for her. Maybe she could have even liked her teachers and made a few friends if it didn't feel like the deepest betrayal whenever they smiled or laughed with him. His grand act of easygoing friendliness has always outshined her, his entertaining lies always swallows up her ugly truth.

Not wanting to hear their laughter anymore, Casey grabs her bundles and climbs out the window.

She does go to the store but to buy a cherry coke and some chocolate powdered donuts, chips and dip still sitting on the shelf, a silent 'fuck you' to uncle John. 

///

Casey's laying on top of her sleeping bag, listening to the sounds of the busy street below her when she hears someone say, "this isn’t exactly the right place to be camping out at night, if you can believe it.” 

Casey startles and looks up to see her neighbor staring down at her. She sits up and across from his window to lean against the railing and properly look at him. He's got his arms crossed on the window sill, wearing the same dark shirt as last time, still buttoned all the way up. There's a perpetual frown on his face as they stare at each other for a beat too long until she remembers to respond.

"Hey," she says.

He blinks, surprise in his eyes, probably expecting a moody reply from a sullen teenager camping outside, problem child stamped on her forehead.

"Hey."

“I’ve done it plenty of times before," she finally answers his question. "I’m fine.”

Humming, his frown deepens. His eyes narrow, visibly uncomfortable at the this new information. “I’m Dennis,” he offers his hand.

"Casey,” she replies, internally giddy that she finally has his name after almost a month. She leans forward to clasp her hand in his large, warm one.

"I'm sorry if I was too abrupt earlier this week," Dennis says. "I, uh, haven't had a real conversation in a while aside from work."

"That makes two of us," she says, face growing warm because he's yet to let go of her hand.

Dennis looks down then and pulls away, as if he can read her mind. “Your dad...he, uh, makes a lot of noise," he states dryly.

"He's not my dad. He's my uncle. And it’s game night so…”

“You living with your uncle?”

“Yeah."

Brows knitting, Dennis glances back down at her again. “If you don't mind my asking, where are your parents?”

“They're dead,” Casey says matter-of-factly, he looks away again but her gaze remains unwavering. “So, do you like it here?” she blurts out, not wanting the man to leave too soon. “Besides the noise, I mean,” she smirks.

Dennis takes the change of subject smoothly. “It’s all right, I guess. Don’t get out too much to know.”

"What do you do?”

“I’m a handyman.”

“Really?”

Dennis arches an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

“You just don’t seem to be one is all. I sort of pictured a handyman as constantly covered in paint and as equally as loud as my uncle and his friends.” 

“I have a toolbox.”

“Still don’t buy it." 

"Well, I guess you’ll just have to see it sometime.”

Casey feels herself blushing at what probably sounds like an innocent jibe to the older man's ears and something else to her considering she finds him oddly attractive. He doesn't look like the type to flirt - especially with a teenager - and Casey is never the target of such things, to her relief. She doesn't have that type of problem with any of the boys at school. So she chalks up the reaction to her curiosity and his pleasant attitude with her so far. And the fact that he hasn't met her uncle yet.

They fall silent for an awkward moment where Casey's kind of hoping he doesn't take the opportunity to leave.

“So, what were you up to before deciding to warn me about the dangers of fire escape camping?" She asks.

“Reading.”

“Anything good?”

Dennis shrugs. “Just the newspaper.”

"Ah, conscious, are you?"

Dennis smirks. “No more than the average civilian, I think. Besides yourself."

"There's been no reported murders or wild plant fires on this fire escape as far as I know."

Dennis laughs quietly, shaking his head. "So, what, you looking to be the first then?"

Casey shrugs. "Tune into your local news station tonight at eight and see."

He shakes his head again, amused. "Are your friends this morbid too, or is it just you? What grade are you in?”

“Twelfth. And no friends to speak of," she admits quietly.

Dennis looks at her unconvincingly.

“I really _don’t_ have any," she says lightheartedly.

"You're just out here alone then- all the time?"

"Yeah?" she says a bit defensively. "Looks like neither of us get a lot of guests." Casey ducks her head and inwardly curses herself, thinking she's overstepped her boundaries with that comment.

“Too busy,” she hears him say, not sounding put off at all by the remark.

Casey keeps her eyes glued to the floor even as a small smile comes unbidden on her face. “Too busy, huh? Twenty-four, seven handyman?”

“What's your excuse, school is over around three-thirty.”

Casey bites her lip to stop from smiling,  _touché_ , she glances back up at him. “What are you doing with your exciting evening then?”

“Cleaning." He shrugs. "Maybe read a book.”

Casey nods. “ _Well_ ," she exhales, "I’ll, uh, keep watch of your window for you. And your vase," she points to the empty thing, "not sure of its chances of starting a fire...but I'll guard it from any insects or pigeons.”

Dennis winces. "Nah, don’t joke about that.”

Casey hums in amusement as he ducks back inside with a smile goodbye, leaving the window half open, he lets the curtains fall back in place. She doesn't bother moving to sit in front of the window again but she does divert her attention to her phone, not wishing to appear like a voyeur.

They only held a short conversation but it was pleasant compared to the nonexistent or angry ones she has with nearly everyone else. He had talked to her as an equal and it was refreshing. It looks like she might have one more thing to look forward to in life.

///

  **'Where r u?? Did you get the chips?' - John**

Casey silences her phone and lazily watches the sky turn an orange and golden hue, the clouds fattening up as the air grows cooler. She had fallen asleep. She decides to get up when she hears the whirr of Dennis' vaccuum and walks to a small burger joint several minutes away to grab a bite to eat and use the restroom. 

She only climbs back in the apartment to change into something comfortable to sleep in: a large tee and matching black pajama pants. She hisses as she tosses her shirt off, a nasty bruise blooming on her side from being knocked into the chair. Her uncle and his friends sound truly plastered now and she hurries to get dressed before John decides to barge in.

As she's crawling back out she hears Dennis' window slide open. “You camping out here again?” he asks.

“Yeah." Casey goes to the window but he's already left.

“How’s your day going so far?” Dennis asks from somewhere in the apartment.

“Cloudy with a cool breeze." Casey stretches out her legs as she sits, craning her neck to get a look inside as the curtains are pulled back. The only source of light comes from a lamp by the couch so she can’t make out much other than that, his apartment still appears spotless and pretty bare. She sees no personal photos or hint of personality other than the rows of films and books tucked neatly in their shelves with titles she can’t read from her position.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Sure," she replies nonchalantly despite her heart thumping erratically, surprised that he's still talking to her.

He comes into view with a chair and eases it down in front of the window. “Okay,” Dennis heavily sighs as he sits, crossing his hands in his lap. “I’m curious. What’s so great about this fire escape that you’re on it nearly every day and night?”

“I like being out here," she shrugs. "The sound of traffic, polluted air, great... _view_ of the metal bars. What's not to like?” Casey's traitorous mind loudly points out that she has a fantastic view at this moment. The soft, golden light coming from the apartment feels strangely intimate and makes Dennis look less rigid and at ease.

"Oh, now I'm _sold_ ," he drawls. His shirt stretches over his broad chest and shoulders as he crosses his arms and she looks away, shyly.

She doesn’t know why he’s entertaining her so much, maybe he really is lonely whereas she doesn't want to be bothered- until he began talking to her, that is.

"It's quieter out here. At least to me." Casey can still hear the occasional cheer and yelling coming from her apartment inbetween the moderator's comments on the football game, but it's okay, it's _safe_. 

"Yeah? I'm not intruding, am I?" his brow knits, and he begins to stand.  

"No," Casey says hurriedly and waits for him to sit again before relaxing. "No, you're okay," she reassures him, smiling.

///

"I think I'm about to head off for the night," Dennis says an hour later, closing the book he was reading.

"Okay."

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight," she echoes, the word sounding strange in her mouth. She can't remember the last time someone told her that.

///

"You still awake?” Dennis looks down at her burrowed inside the sleeping bag about half an hour later after he shoves open his window.

“Yeah. I guess we both can't sleep." That thought is derailed as Dennis sighs heavily, face scrunching up in a troubled expression.

“You, uh, warm enough out there?”

It's then she slowly comes to the realization that he's checking on her, he's worried. It's gotten dark out now, the street lights flickering on and the roar of traffic is less frequent.

“I’m fine," she answers, feeling awkward and warm under his gaze. "I'm not going to be on the news in the morning, and you won't find any small fires outside your window," she teases.

“Alright,” he reluctantly responds, shifting anxiously.

“I can handle myself out here,” she says more firmly, afraid that he just might report her to the landlord. 

He looks at her for a long moment before nodding. "I believe you."

Casey doesn't know how to respond to that, suddenly feeling overwhelmed with content, a small sliver of trust extending towards him.

Dennis ducks back inside and pushes the window down but he leaves the curtains open. She doesn’t get up to see if he leaves the living room or if he's watching over her, she’s been protecting herself since she was five.

But the laughter and cheering coming from her uncle's apartment doesn’t matter anymore as she lays back down, smiling at the empty flower vase and plain, white curtains of her neighbors window.


	2. Boundaries

Casey wakes up with a nasty bruise on her side and stiff joints the next morning. Groaning, she rolls over to face the dark blue-gray sky. She blinks away the remnants of dreams and memories swirling behind her eyelids, of the smell of grass and the soft rumble of her father's voice. The whoosh of cars driving by and the cool breeze almost lulls her back under. Huffing, she kicks the sleeping bag away and gets up, stretching until her limbs are loose and aching pleasantly. 

She enjoys the morning routine of waking, how still time seems to the sleep addled brain those first hours, the patient ritual of getting ready for the day though there's nothing particularly great to look forward to. Climbing back through her window, Casey lazily shuffles towards the bathroom when one thing springs to mind, causing a small smile to form on her lips. 

She thinks about last night with a rare lightness, she had really liked the time spent with her neighbor last night, finding Dennis very easy to talk to. Or _not_ talk to if she felt like it as they lounged around listening to the sounds of the city and the pages of his book turning. 

There was a calmness to him hiding in his highly buttoned collared shirt and stern demeanor that eased her own troubles, allowing her to speak freely and openly. She can't remember feeling so comfortable around another person, or trusting them enough to let conversation flow so easily without repercussions. Neither can she remember feeling very interested to do so, the desire to connect was always there, but it has always taken the back burner to protect herself or fulfill other needs. And to connect with an older person, no less, was funny enough since they were the ones who let her down the most.

Heading back to her room, she slips on a black and gray plaid jacket over a white thermal and jeans. She slides on her bracelets and hisses in pain when she bends down to pull on her boots, her side flaring up in hot, throbbing pain. To get dressed in her own room was a luxury since her uncle thinks that she doesn't need privacy and barges in whenever he pleases. Even while still half sleep, she hurries to get ready.

The living room is a mess from last night's game. There are cigarette butts and beer cans and chip bags littered around the table and couch. Casey cleans it all up since she's up first and not doing so will cause a big fuss later.

There's a few bucks left in her wallet so she heads out the front door to scrounge up some breakfast. Her uncle never learned how to cook beyond frozen foods and quick-and-easy boxes even after he'd taken her in. There's a diner ten minutes away with cheap specials and she begins the lone trek there.

///

To her horror, Dennis is already up and dressed for the day as Casey trudges up the fire escape. She's a bit irked by the fact that she's been awake for a few hours already and is sill trying to stand upright and swallow her coffee down the right pipe. She hadn't even bothered to iron her clothes this morning. He's standing steadily on a chair in his living room cleaning the lampshade that's dangling from the ceiling.

His window is open so Casey goes over to sit in front of it, wincing at the dull throb in her side. She lays her arm on the sill and rests her head against it. Her face scrunches up seconds later. His place smells strongly of bleach and lemon and she wrinkles her now burning nose, sneezing. He looks over, wide eyed, and gives a short nod in greeting. He's wearing a sanitation mask and yellow gloves that makes him look ridiculous. She burrows her face in the crook of her arm to mask the smell. She doesn't question that he had cleaned- in her opinion - thoroughly the day before. Or the fact that he's wearing very similar clothing. She's slowly piecing him together.

There is one thing she can't ignore: "I think you've been here for about a month and you still don't have a flower in this vase," she says, sliding it closer. "It's kind of bothering me."

"So put a flower in there," comes his muffled response behind the mask, eyes still glued on the lampshade.

"You're not allergic to anything, are you?"

"Not to my knowledge."

Casey grabs her coffee settled between her legs and takes a sip, the warm, hazelnut flavored liquid seeps in her bones and is having the opposite effect of keeping her awake. "Maybe get some new curtains, splash on a fresher paint, a nice mural..."

"Renovate the entire apartment if you like," he offers, blue eyes glinting behind his glasses.

"You'd have to pay me for my services."

"Anyone I'm working with I tell them I pay by the quality, not by the hour."

"In _this_ economy?" she exclaims.

Dennis pulls down the mask. "I have to do some work anyway because the landlord here is useless and this place will fall apart if I don't. But I like it. Keeps me busy."

"Yeah, I need some work done too, like a lock for my door," she says, only half joking. She wishes she had the skill so she could keep her uncle out. Casey can't recall the last time she sat in her room to just enjoy it. She only sleeps in it when it's raining or the temperature is too unbearable.

Dennis slows his ministrations and squints up at the lampshade.

"I think it's actually clean enough," she says. In fact, your entire apartment is spotless." 

Dennis looks embarassed and her stomach flips worriedly, afraid she's offended him in some way.

"Why don't you have any photos around?" her gaze wanders to the empty tables and countertops.

He stares at her with a closed off expression. "Not really my thing," he drawls. "And it'll start to clutter up the place." He eases off the chair and moves it back under the table. 

"Do you have an album book hiding somewhere you're embarassed about?" she can't imagine the man before her, rolling up his sleeves to reveal thick, muscular arms, as some screaming, flailing kid.

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours."

"Pass," Casey pulls a face. "Besides, I don't have any baby pictures...or pictures of my mom and dad. But if I did I'd put them up."

Dennis peels off his gloves and chucks them in the trash. "Why don't you?"

"I threw them away one night." At Dennis' quizzical glance she elaborates, "I was angry," her eyes glaze over as she remembers that day, another blur of a disagreement with her uncle that escalated with her on the floor. "I went to go get them the next morning but it was too late." She shrugs. "They were in the garbage and they'd already taken them away."

"Why'd you throw them away?" he asks.

"It felt right at the time, I guess. You can't change the past so why continue looking back at it."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine," she mumbles, picking awkwardly at the plastic top of her cup. She doesn't know why she's confessing all of this to him, something about him just gives off a vibe that says judge-free-zone. "You could have at least one painting up, you know," she says lightly.

Dennis shrugs. "I guess I could call myself a fan of Francisco Goya, I like his darker work."

"Hm...don't know him. They only teach us about the ninja turtles in art class and how to make faces out of scribbles."

Dennis opens his mouth to say something when a banging on her bedroom window followed by her uncle calling her name interrupts them and they both freeze.

Casey holds up a finger, face pleading, and moves over to her own window. She removes the box she has there ever since she'd started talking to Dennis and crouches down.

"Yeah?" She says.

John yawns loudly, eyes squeezing shut. He reeks of beer and her face scrunches up disgustingly. "What are you doing out here?" he asks, suspicion thick in his throat.

"The usual," she responds neutrally. "Why?"

"I need you to run to the store for me." He groans and rubs his forehead. "Made you a list." John tugs it out of his pocket and hands it to her and Casey tries not to touch him as he hands over the money as well. She smirks as she reads the first item on the list: painkilers.

"Yeah, okay," she says.

She waits for him to shut the window and leave. Dennis is leaning against his window sill when she comes back.

"I have to go," Casey smiles thinly. "But I'll talk to you later," she says.

"See you soon," he says, soft, lost in his own thoughts as he watches her go. 

///

"Damnit, Casey," John growls, throwing his arms up. "I thought I told you to get the mail."

He had most definitely _not_ told her to get the mail but she doesn't correct him, too tired to argue. "Sorry," she mumbles.

"Where's your fucking head sometimes...fucking useless," he mutters as he stalks off to his room.

Casey grits her teeth. "I'll just go get the mail right now, then."

John sighs and shakes his head as if he can't be bothered with her anymore. "No point. I'll just get dressed and get it myself. Damn it."

Casey stomps to her room and slams the door.

///

 Apparently, her stunt with Mrs. Murphy last week had gotten around because her teachers are already on the defense on Monday. They give her knowing looks that speaks of more than an evening's detention if she misbehaves.

Casey would have gladly taken them up on the offer but she didn't necessarily like being here.

Normally, she can numb the glares and contempt away. But today it gets to her more than usual for reasons she can't wrap her head adound, so she keeps her mouth shut and head down all day. Maybe it's the dull throbbing still in her side.

"Spacey Casey." she hears someone say, chuckling. "Don't go near her, like, I'm pretty sure she'll go batshit crazy on someone one day."

"What do you mean, one day? She already does on the teachers."

"She's so weird. Why do you think she acts that way? Who does she think she is?"

Casey ignores them.

They have to write an essay in English class about their future- non optional if they wanted to pass and graduate. Casey doesn't even know where to begin. You had to have a past and a present to think about the future and with the kind that Casey's lived through it doesn't leave her optimistic about things to come. Besides, she's not the type to go spilling her heart out which is what these types of essays permit. She decides to just wing it and make up some fake yet heartfelt story.

They're supposed to begin writing it in class now but she has no idea what to make up. Casey has a few hobbies, such as the doodling she's currently busying herself with in the corner of her notebook, and nothing she's passionate in. She mentally runs through a list of jobs and lifestyles that would be approved of. She supposes she wouldn't mind working with machines or books or animals, anything that requires little social interaction. She makes a note to search for occupations online later.

Without warning, Casey is snatched up by the bicep by her teacher-  Mr. Tanner - and forcefully dragged out of the classroom. She tries to wrestle out of his grip, her heart pounding, and she cries out as he tightens his hold. There are murmurs from the other students before the door slams shut and they're alone in the hallway. He shoves her forward and she whirls around, backing up instinctively when he points a stubby finger in her face. She opens her mouth to ask what the hell did she do to earn this treatment but Mr. Tanner fixes her with a glare that reminds her of her uncle.

Mr. Tanner was not only the English teacher but also the football coach. Although he barely towers over her or any of the other students he's stocky and has the meanest, intimidating scowl that she's ever seen. But he's never lost it on her like this before, the rougher attitude mostly reserved for his meat headed players. For a quick moment she thought he was going to strike her.

"Don't you dare say a word!" he barks, only inches away from her face. Casey tenses at the loud ringing in her ears his sharp, deep voice makes. She presses her back against the cold, brick wall, eyes wide.

Casey clamps her mouth shut and her teeth painfully together.

"You can get away with doing nothing with your other teachers but I've had it up to here," he points a finger to the ceiling. "With the laziness and disrespect from you, young lady. You are not in art class. Now I've taught a lot of hard heads over the years," Mr. Tanner seethes, face scrunching up in disgust as if he can't bare to look at her. "And I gotta say that you are one of the worst goddamn kids I've ever encountered."

Casey juts out her chin and stares stonily at him even when her shoulders rise with every sharp, piercing word. She's not scared of him. She's taken worser insults. But she can't deny the shock and flush of embarassment flooding through her as a few stray students in the hall watch, and teachers poke their heads out of their classrooms.

"What are you going to do when you graduate, huh!? _If_ you graduate. _I'm_ not teaching you anymore. _I_ won't have it! You know, I feel sorry for your parents, you're damn sure lucky you aren't my child."

Casey stops breathing. He can't know that her parents are dead. He can't be that furious or cruel to say such a thing to a student, can he? 

Mr. Tanner scoffs and shakes his head, turning on his heel and heading back to his classroom. He halts, half turning back to her and she looks at him, her insides shutting down. "You keep that behavior up, Casey Cooke, and you are never going to amount to _anything_."

He leaves her out there, on display for all to see, not expecting for her to come back inside.

///

 "Hey," her uncle says casually when she gets home. He's shrugging into his coat and getting ready to leave. He has his shotgun in hand which he keeps locked up in his room, ever since she threatened him with it what feels like forever ago.

"Hey," she mumbles, keeping her gaze carefully on him. He looks to be in a good, stable mood today and she doesn't want to be the one responsible in flipping his switch by doing something as simple as glancing down at the weapon. 

"I'm going out. You'll have to order or something, I won't be back until late. Clean the kitchen before I get back."

"Okay."

He passes by her to get out the front door and that's the end of it. There's no shouting or taunting of calling her a waste of space. He doesn't shove or push or smack her.

She suddenly feels a rush of anger as she glares at his departing back. Why can't it be like this all of the time? Why does he have to act tolerable on such a shitty day. It's not like she wants him to get mad and hit her but it feels like a slap in the face anyway, a look into what she could have had if her life was normal.

Casey goes to the kitchen when he leaves and runs the sink, adding a little dish soap in. Her movements are automatic, the only sound the clinking of dishes and sloshing water. All the while, she feels grief and anger steadily roll over her in waves, building up inside her and spreading through her body like a fever. She grips the sink with white, sudsy knuckles and bends forward, struggling to breathe.

She stares at the empty beer cans sitting on top of the trash can. Casey's never gotten drunk or high, promised herself she wouldn't be the same as Uncle John. But what gives him the right to be happy when she can't. She thinks of just trying it once, to drink as much as she can until she passes out to forget this horrible day. She knows he must have more in the fridge. Maybe it will work and her uncle will find it so funny he won't bother punishing her for it. Dully, she opens the fridge.

It's empty.

She slams the fridge shut and storms off to her room, a guttural scream ripping up her throat.

Sometimes Casey fantasizes about getting a call from her uncle's job or a policemen or doctor to inform her that he's been in some kind of tragic accident. If her dad only knew the kinds of ugly thoughts that ran through her mind he'd have a heart attack all over again. It even scares her sometimes, the graphic, detailed images of her uncle's various deaths playing throughout her mind. She's not that type of person but he drives her into the deepest, darkest places just to get her through the day without breaking down.

Only right now it feels pretty fucking terrible.

And it isn't because she cares about him, but it's that she doesn't know who she is at the end of the day because of this ugly, all consuming rage she has towards him.

Casey bangs open bedroom door, something like a scream and a sob tears from her throat that she doesn't recognize. She kicks her desk chair down as she barrels past it. The violent action felt good. So she kicks it again. She goes to her desk and shoves the pencils and makeup and cds on the ground. Yanks her drawers out and lets the clothing fall to the floor- rips the ones hanging up in the closet. She doesn't want any of it. She wants a _new_ home. A new life. A new her. Wants it so bad she'll think a million ugly more thoughts to get it. Might commit ugly acts to do it. She wants it more than breathing.

She drops to her knees, panting and shaking and crying, feeling exhausted and strangely lighter for the sudden outburst.

There's no crying or the constant, heady feeling of fear and hate pressing down on her now. Only hollowness. Like she's been wiped away; her emotions, her memories, her identity. For a quiet, blissful moment she's nothing and she doesn't exist in this purgatory. She follows that emptiness, that buzzing silence, into darkness.

///

Casey stands and pushes her hair back from her face. She sways on her feet, feeling dizzy and sick and overheated.

She climbs out the window, stumbling on the way, her limbs feeling heavy and sluggish. A cool gust of wind hits her face and she sighs. Striding over to the railing, she leans against it and looks over the street.

There are three other teens she recognizes from school on the landing, talking and laughing while they have a smoke. It's an irational thought, but she thinks they might be laughing about her. The incident with Mr. Tanner no doubt spreading faster than their thumbs could accurately type on their social network statuses, complete with dozens of exclamation marks and laughing emojis.

Casey thinks of running away again but she never makes it very far. He never gives her enough cash to do so. She has no one or no place to run to anyway.

"Casey?" Dennis says.

Casey pretends as if she doesn't hear him, not feeling like talking anymore today or faking a smile or pleasantries; not even for him.

He seems to pick up on her mood because he doesn't say anything else. Part of her feels shitty because she doesn't want to seem like a jerk to the only person who she can say she likes even a little. Another part hopes this rickety fire escape loosens up enough to come crashing down with her on it.

"I got you a bolt lock."

It takes a moment for the words to fully register and when they do Casey turns around, brows knitting in confusion and mouth parting in surprise. "What?" she croaks, her throat sore and raw.

Dennis is standing by the window with a thoughtful look on his face. "You said you needed one," he gestures to the small plastic package he's holding. "So I'd thought I'd get one for you."

Casey stares wordlessly at Dennis. He looks almost nervous and unsure as he waits for her to say something. It was an odd gift to give someone but then again he was an odd man and what did she know about gifts?

It would be nice to have some privacy, especially so she didn't have to worry about her uncle picking the normal lock and bursting in whenever he felt like it. She can sleep in her room and get dressed without rushing or just lay down and do simple things that everyone else has the luxury of doing.

"You didn't have to do that. How much did it cost you?" she frowns down at him and slowly moves over to the window. "I can pay you back."

Dennis is shaking his head before she's finished. "I wanted to." He offers a small smile. "I'll even put it on - free of charge - whenever you like."

Casey would smile back if she could muster up the energy. "Are you free right now?"

"I'll go get my toolbox and meet you over there."

Nodding, she abruplty remembers the current state of her room with a panic. "Wait! Can you give me a couple of minutes?" she calls out, already hurrying to her own window.

"Okay," he says amusedly.

Casey hurries back inside to clean up the tornado of evidence she left behind at backbreaking speed, all the while cursing at herself and feeling a growing, giddy sense of excitement. A faint memory comes to her of doing this at four when her dad would promise her ice cream or a trip to the park.

"Put those toys away and we can go play," he would say, smile down at her, his own little saying to indicate he had something special planned for their day.

Jamming the last drawer back in her dresser, hair askew, she looks around for anything else out of place. She picks up the chair she's jumped over a dozen times and balls up a few shirts, chucking them in the drawer. 

She rushes to the bathroom and does a mirror check, running her fingers through her hair and straightening her clothes. Her cheeks are red from exertion and her nose and eyes are a little red and puffy but she looks fine. Not that she was trying to look exceptionally great, she tells herself, merely presentable.

There's a soft knocking on the door and she goes to unlock it, hoping that none of her nosy neighbors are outside to see her letting in the older guy next door when she's home alone.

Dennis seems to have the same idea - as if he hadn't thought of that before his offer. He steps in and looks around, "is your uncle here?"

"No," she says while closing the door, not wanting to lie. "He won't mind though-" 

"Because he won't know?" he finishes a little disapprovingly.

"It's not like you're a stranger, Dennis," she says his name pointedly. "I think I'm safer with you than on the fire escape."

Dennis' brows furrow unconvincingly. 

That would have been far reaching to anyone else considering she knew nothing about this man besides the little he's told her. Yet they wouldn't have taken into account that she knew everything about her uncle and he was a massive asshole.

"I see you have a toolbox," she walks backwards to the hallway and he follows her. "You're not going to bludgeon me with it are you? No?" she guesses when he doesn't humor her. "Come on, then."

Casey flicks on the hallway light and he kneels down to set the toolbox on the floor and open it.

"You, uh, seemed kinda down back out there," Dennis says in that heavy accent she finds she loves. "Had a rough day?"

"I'm fine," she answers shortly.

Dennis stares at her as she leans against the wall and stuffs her hands in her jacket pocket. "Do you have enough light?" she attempts to change the subject. Casey can't tell him about her problems, not the uglier ones anyway, that would scare anyone off.

"Yeah."

Dennis ruffles through the box and brings out a tape measurer. He stops mid-way through standing, hand running over a crack that must have been made from her and her uncle's last altercation. Casey looks away as he looks at her.

Swallowing nervously, she asks, "did you always want to be a handyman?"

Dennis hums distractingly as he measures and marks the door with a pencil he digs out of the tool box. "No. Wanted to be a zookeeper or veterinarian actually, or anything to do with animals."

She perks up. "Maybe the next Crocodile Dundee?"

"Mm-hm."

"It's never too late. At least, that's what everyone who is already happy says," she tells him sadly. "How long have you been doing this."

"About five years."

"What'd you do before?"

Dennis sighs, not annoyed but rather reluctant. "I was a cleaner."

"Like what? A house cleaner or..."

"A cleaner as in I cleaned things," he simply says, shrugging, focusing on the door.

"You seem good at that," she smiles. "So, what, you cleaned cars? Were you a janitor...butler...world renowned skycraper window washer," she ticks off. 

"Yeah, the last one," he smirks unconvincingly.

Casey scoffs.

He wordlessly hands her the plug to a power drill, her heart fluttering when their hands touch. She steps inside her room, hooking it up in the nearest outlet.

"Stand back," he warns, starting the drill up. Casey sits on the bed and watches him, not bored in the least. When he finishes he steps inside her room, bringing the drill with him. "It's not late at all for you to do what you want too, you know."

"I don't know what I want to do." Casey rolls her eyes and leans back on the mattress with a stubborn sigh, leaving her legs dangling off the bed. She doesn't miss the way his eyes roam over her and she blushes, her arms wrapping around her middle. 

"I'm sure you'll find something before you know it. You're smart- occasionally," he smirks.

"Screw you," she laughs, instantly regretting it as her stomach flips when he does a double take, expression unreadable. Here they are, alone in her apartment - in her _bedroom_ , and she had to choose one of the most vulgar phrases to express herself in that moment. She bites her lip, ears burning with embarassment and thoughts that would have the elderly couple next door shoving soap in her mouth.  

Dennis smiles, slow and private, turning on the drill again. "I stand by what I said." He gets back to drilling and chiseling away the excess wood and other handyman things while she lazily watches from the bed.

While she's not hesitant to admit to herself in finding the older man attractive compared to the loud mouthed, lanky boys who smell like sour sweat and too much axe spray at school, she's never thought of him sexually. There was a difference between her eyes sticking on various, distracting body parts appreciatively and then imagining it in certain positions. She can't stop thinking about it now. The confident, sure way he moves that comes with age and the muscles beneath his shirt, the way he fills it out then tapers around his belted waist. Or how his thighs fill out his pants, leaving little to the imagination. And taking it a step further, imagining that body over or under her, pressed against her own, moving to chase and ease the growing ache between her thighs.

"Want to check it out?" he looks at her with a satisfied smile.

Casey blinks, face warm and slightly out of breath. She sits up and slides off the bed, senses on high alert due to her wandering mind. Dennis pulls out a key from his pocket and places it in her waiting palm. He shuts the door and moves to stand behind her. There's a long stretch of silence as the lock clicks in place.

Dennis brushes up against her back as he leans forward and grasps the bottom doorknob, checking to make sure everything is in working order. "There," he breathes against the shell of her ear. "Now you have a little more privacy."

"Sounds great," she responds unevenly. He's so close to her she could feel the heat radiating off him.

"And this..." she hears him say. Casey turns back around to face him, hoping the evidence of her attraction isn't written all over her face. Dennis procures a black piece of string from his pocket. He removes the key from the deadbolt and slides it on the string.

Catching on to his intentions, she brushes her hair behind her ear and lowers her head slightly as he puts it on her. She shuffles in place, biting her lip as his fingers tickle against her skin, her own fingers twitching with the need to touch him.

"Thanks," she says, staring down at her new sense of freedom- even if it appeared to Dennis as small as the key, it wasn't for her.

"Your hand..." he says, frowning.

"What?" Casey looks down and pushes up her sleeve, realizing her hand is bleeding, a nasty gash she must have gotten from her tirade. It wasn't deep but there were specks of blood running diagonally from her thumb to her wrist. "Oh...I didn't even notice. It's fine."

Dennis gives her a long suffering look. "Fine if you want an infection. Where's your bathroom?"

Casey leads him across the hall and opens the bathroom door. Dennis twists the faucet on and runs two fingers through it before gently taking her wrist and putting her hand under the cool water. Once done, he orders her to sit. She hops up on the counter.

Dennis opens the medicine cabinet, he grabs the rubbing alochol and she directs him to the linen closet next to the bathroom for a towel. He comes back and takes her hand in his larger, calloused one and places their joined hands on her thigh. Any gags she has about free lollipops or amputated hands dies on her tongue as he tends to her with a concentrated frown she finds too adorable for her own good.

He applies the rubbing alcohol with his free hand and she only winces once. Her fingers curl in his grasp. There's another long stretch of silence that's neither awkward or comfortable, the air between them becoming warm and thick. His steady breathing tickles her skin while he opens the band-aid box. Casey wriggles her leg anxiously, the cabinet softly banging rhythmically with each shake. Dennis arches a brow without looking up, busy applying the band-aid. She stops, giggling. He was put together but so easily wound up, and now so was she for entirely different reasons. He seems so concerned over a small scratch and ignorant to the colorful bruise resembling California on her side.

Casey wants to kiss him. The desire pulls at her heart deliciously, and painfully. She wants to touch him to see if it's real. To feel something other than pain. She's never thought of such things before so strongly, kissing and crushes were just idle thoughts that flitted in her head once every blue moon, those things were meant for _normal_ people who had _normal_ relationships.

She imagines having the courage to do it, to lean down and press her lips to his. Run her hands over his body and unpluck each teasing button until she sees skin and feel how warm he is. She wants him show her how to feel good in ways that a case of beer couldn't do. Her uncle won't be back until tonight and...

And would he want that? Doubtful. She was young and plain looking and inexperianced with baggage too heavy for anyone to willingly carry. He doesn't want some high school student whose never even kissed a boy.

"There," Dennis murmurs, stepping back.

"Thanks" Casey says, gaze flitting hungrily to his mouth. "For everything."

Dennis looks away, walking out of the bathroom. "No problem."

Sighing, Casey slides off the counter and trails after him. He's aleady putting his tools away and cleaning up the mess. She doesn't want him to leave but she doesn't know when her uncle might be coming back. He follows her to the front door and she feels silly and young for even thinking such things with him in the same room.

As she opens the door Dennis presses his hand on it, closing it back. He steps closer, her fingers brushing against his arm at the sudden movement.

He pushes up his glasses and shifts on his feet, she catches the scent of bleach and oil grease. "If-" he sighs and rubs a hand over his head, "if you ever need me to fix anything around here, or...or anything, just ask. Okay?"

Casey smiles wearily, confused by the seriousness of his tone. "Okay."

Dennis wets his lips, gaze flickering back and forth to her and the door, hesitant about something she finds herself needing to know.

"What is it?" she prods, heart beating faster.

"Um..." he shifts the toolbox and grabs a cellphone out of his pants pocket, glances back at her. "What's your number?" he asks. "For- just in case."

He doesn't explain what he means by that and she could care less. Casey shyly relays the information over and he repeats it back for confirmation. She opens the door again and this time he leaves.


	3. Secrets and Things Left Unsaid

Casey has learned not to expect much from life, but she figures the least it could do was cut her a little slack.

Stepping off the bus on her way home from school one evening, the sky gives no warning aside from darkening before the rain heavily falls down soon after. It doesn’t let up and a minute later she’s nearly soaked. By the time Casey makes the run to her apartment building her teeth are chattering and there’s small puddles trailing behind her.

She rushes up the steps with squeaky boots, shivering, her cold, wet clothes biting into her skin. The a/c in the building decides to click, stutter, and whirr to life in that moment and she curses her entire being.

Casey digs into her pockets for the apartment key, the idea of crawling into her warm bed the only thing on her mind; except she can't _find_ her key. “What the…” She turns the pockets out and a disbelieving, mad laugh rises from her throat. She checks her jacket and messenger bag a few times until she accepts that the universe isn’t going to cut her a break and hand them over. Her cell is dead so she can’t call her uncle which is really the icing on the cake considering it was her last option anyway.

"Just great," she mutters.

A sharp chill prickles down to her bones and she rubs her shaking fingers together, her shirt clings uncomfortably to her and she jolts in surprise as water streaks down her back. Groaning, Casey shakes her head and arms like a wet bird and throws her head back petulantly. The elderly couple next door give her a strange look as they enter their own apartment, "something is wrong with that child" the woman tuts disapprovingly. Casey rolls her eyes. They land on Dennis' door.

She’ll just ask to dry off and stay at his instead of bracing the rain again to find somewhere else to pass the time. No harm in that, she tells herself. He's never made a suggestion of inviting her in despite them texting pretty regularly now, mostly about his job and her school work and other mundane topics, but she cherishes each one before deleting them to avoid her uncle's recent prodding.

John had noticed a change in her mood over the past few days; she's less easily to get riled up by his words and antics, the constant anxiety of coming home not knowing what to expect and with nowhere to run is duller. She's well rested now that she sleeps on a mattress compared to iron bars often. John hasn't breached the subject yet but when the time comes she doesn't want to leave any evidence behind about Dennis, John was _still_ pissed about the bolt lock.

Casey knocks, hoping that he's home and that she doesn't resemble a wet, scowling cat. She rocks back on her heels with excitement when she hears the locks slide. The door opens revealing Dennis wearing a snug, plaid shirt, looking perfectly warm and content. 

"Casey?" he sounds surprised as he glances over her.

"Lost my key," she smiles sheepishly.

Dennis wordlessly steps aside and opens the door wider and she graciously rushes in. 

It was both familiar and strange to be in his apartment as opposed to looking at it through a window. It was a little larger than John's, the lack of a personal touch or any mementos exaggerating its emptiness. The only source of light comes from a lamp in the living-room.

“Wait here,” he says over his shoulder, disappearing into the hallway. “I’ll get you a change of clothes and you can take those off to dry.”

"Thanks."

Casey tugs off her boots and socks and puts them by the door, not wanting to get the carpet wet. “Sorry,” she says when he comes back, large towel, two hangers, and shirt in hand.

“It’s fine." He passes over the towel and looks away. Casey dries herself as best as she can, until she’s no longer dripping on his tiled floor, when she's done he passes over the other items. “Bathroom is down the hall to the right. You can leave your things in there to dry.”

The bathroom is spic and span as well and she does her best to keep it that way. She peels her jacket and shirt off first, avoiding the bruises and scars reflecting in the mirror as she dries herself off. She does her hair next and pulls the soft, cotton shirt on after, and a pair of boxers that was folded inside falls to the floor. Her own underwear isn't wet - small mercies as she would have rather drowned than leave those hanging around his house - so she keeps those on and pulls the boxers over. 

Casey looks down at her exposed legs uncomfortably, she wasn't used to showing so much skin around other people. She felt safer in her jeans and long sleeves. His shirt stops mid-thigh and the collar was a bit too large. Thankfully, she doesn't have to answer any questions about bruises or scars; John usually aimed for her torso and upper arms since it was easier to conceal. 

Dennis is waiting by the door when she exits, eyes flickering over her and then to the bathroom. "Better?" he asks.

"Yeah, thanks."

There's a stretch of uncomfortable silence where they stare at each other. Dennis looks as if he wants to say something before he falters, clearing his throat. "Would you, uh, like a glass of water?"

“I think I’m actually good on water for the evening," she smiles.

“How about something warm then? You drink tea?”

"Yeah."

Casey follows him into the kitchen. “So, you lost your key, huh?”

“I have no idea where I could have put them. And my phone died so I'm super lucky you were here." Casey wasn't too confident about her chances of being invited into the elderly couple's apartment.

Dennis opens a cupboard and gets out two mugs, places them on the counter, grabs a kettle from another. “What time do you think your uncle will be home?”

“Around seven, probably a bit longer with this weather, if that's okay."

Dennis flicks his wrist to check his watch. "A few hours to kill then. You should charge your phone and let him know,” he tells her softly, subdued. He fills the kettle with water and places it on the stove, and where his movements have always been fluid and precise they're now stilted and jerky.

Casey doesn't think much of it, adds it up to Dennis being unaccustomed to sharing his space. She grabs her phone and charger from her bag she'd left by the door, plugging it into an outlet in the living-room and gives it a couple of minutes to juice before she'll power it up.

She glances back at Dennis who hasn't moved yet. "A watched kettle never boils," she comments to his back. 

Dennis merely hums, distracted. He keeps his eyes on the stove, staring unblinkingly.

Casey is attuned to sensing when something is off and the alarms are ringing now. Although his face is closed off and unreadable, his body is not, bent over and tense.

"Hey, you okay?"

"I'm fine," he says lowly, there's an edge of finality to his tone she's never heard before that makes her pause. "Just..." he sighs heavily, rubs his forehead. "I need a moment." Dennis leaves back down the hallway. She hears a door shut seconds later.

"Got it," she answers shortly to the empty room, confused. Casey wanders into the living-room. She's hardly ever seen Dennis so tightly wound before and tries not to feel personally offended by it, he usually aims his agitation at dust and the people in his stories about his job. She _did,_ however, come into his home and dripped water all over the floor. Casey runs over everything since he's opened the door and comes up blank with anything else.

She sits on the couch and fidgets with her bracelets with a sigh. She contemplates calling her uncle and immediately dismisses the thought, she doesn't want to leave unless Dennis tells her. Sighing again, her hands fall to her lap and it's then that she sees the plain, black journal opened on the coffee table. Casey squints her eyes in the dim light at the bookshelf, noticing that the ones on the lower shelves look very identical to the journal on the table. She's seen them plenty of times before but has never noticed the lack of a title on the spine or cover. Looking back to the open page there's the current week's date neatly written in the top corner. Casey figures he must have been writing in it before she had arrived.

Curious, her gaze drops even lower, words fully written in various states of legibility are squashed together. Something was not right here. Casey leans forward, propping her arms on her knees, seeing what appears to be no more than a stream of consciousness written hastily down that she was familiar with doing in her English classes. Get all of your thoughts out, don't over think it, no filtering whatsoever. There's a few words that stand out on the page to her, written with more pressure and care than the others: Workout. Filth. Therapy. Girls. 

Dennis appears beside her and flips the notebook close and she gasps, jumping back. Avoiding her gaze, he picks up the journal carries it over to the bookshelf and slides it in place rather forcefully. 

Casey keeps her eyes on the table and bites her lip, guilt and embarassment flooding through her. It’s clear that he’s not used to having people in his space often - if at all - and she wants to respect that. She hadn't meant to intrude and can't find the words to say so, not wishing to further offend him.

She's been in his position plenty of times, was aware of the overwhelming anxiety and fear of people knowing your deepest, darkest secrets. But now she's seen a hint of it she can't stop thinking about it. Did he go to therapy for his OCD? His apparent isolation from the world around him? Or was it something else. Casey didn't think that was a bad thng, but the closest she's ever been to therapy was family and school counseling which quickly ended when they couldn't get her to speak for fear of her uncle.

Casey opts for the easiest option and stands. "You know, if you're busy or whatever I can leave. My pants are probably dry enough by now."

"Don't," he says, soft. "Please. It's fine."

"I didn't see anything really." And she hadn't, just random words on a page that could mean nothing.

But Dennis shoots her a pained look, she doesn't know how to respond next and the kettle saves them both.

He gestures for her to join him and she does, following him back to the kitchen. Casey sits down at the table, watches him prepare the tea.

He places the mugs on coasters and sits across from her. The aroma of honey is welcoming, she wraps her hands around the mug, too hot to drink at the moment.

"Dennis...talk to me," she tries.

"Forgive me. This is all new territory that I'm not used to." Dennis doesn't look at her while he talks, rotating his mug around, a deep, troubled look on his face. "I'm not used to this," he gestures between them.

"I know," she tells him calmly, unsure of herself and this entire situation. "Me too."

"I don't get guests often. None like yourself, especially."

Casey ignores the possessiveness that flares at the word _often_ , she hasn't seen anyone. But she doesn't ask, instead, she offers a small, encouraging smile.

Dennis knocks his knuckles against the table rhythmically, nervously. "You know I like you, a lot." An affectionate smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Right?"

Casey feels herself blush, her entire body reacting to his words. She squirms, crossing her legs. "I like you too," she says. It hurts to say aloud but she feels they both need to hear them now.

Casey is aware of the small chances of Dennis reciprocating her unwise, growing crush. Unwise, because he's the first good thing that's come out of her life and she doesn't want to lose him; he was sturdy and patient and kind. The first person whose ever really listened to her, and it gives her the courage to speak, to find herself with every smile and laugh he pulls from her. She hasn't felt so alive around anyone for a long time. Forgot what it felt like or that she had craved a connection to someone so badly. And the second it had formed the rest was out of her hands, crashing down like a burning star and knocking against her lungs, breaking into tiny pieces and spreading through her in ways she knows will affect her for years to come.

And it aches most of all because she can see in his eyes that he's building up to an ugly, difficult topic. Dennis may be a man who favors the neat and orderly but he was thorough at getting down to scrape away the dirt first.

He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms, fixes her with a calculating stare. “I’m trying to accept this...whatever _this_ is now," he confesses in a somber tone, accent thicker on his tongue she's learned to know something is important. "And it’s difficult.”

Casey brings the mug up to her lips and it's still too hot, she takes a sip anyway and waits for it to burn her throat with liquid courage before she can speak without her voice cracking with emotion. “Why is it difficult?”

“For a couple of reasons. My lifestyle. My...habits. I'm not good with surprises. You," his brows furrow in contemplation, "you surprise me nearly every day. I've never had this with anyone. A large part of the problem has to do with your age.”

Casey swallows nervously, feels the dread in her chest thickening, making her unbearably hot. She had hoped they would never address their age difference, however, she wasn’t naive to be blind by it - not all the time. It wasn't even their contrasting interests that reminded her of that barrier, but the way he would carry himself with a confidence that only comes from growth, the lines on his face from age, and the slow, deliberate way he picks apart his words before speaking with experience.

Casey wonders if this had anything to do with the journal. Or if Dennis had told someone about her - a family member or someone at work - and they'd advised against him seeing her. She doesn't even want to think about how her uncle would react if he found out about all the times they’ve talked and been alone; even separated by a window and fire escape. Dennis, who came by when John hadn't been home to put a lock on her door. Whose home she sleeps under at night whenever the need to see him is still more tempting than a night in her own home. Who Casey’s been texting for a while now. 

"I've been talking to you for a while now," he says, "even though I know I shouldn't have."

"Don't," she breathes. 

"I want you to know that I don't want to say or do anything that might make you uncomfortable," he says, "or upset you."

"Well, you are," she argues. "I really like talking to you, Dennis."

Dennis stands as if he can't sit still any longer, he makes his way to the counter and grabs the kettle, placing it in the sink. "There's- there's also the matter of your uncle."

"I don't care," she whispers defiantly. "He doesn't know anything. He doesn't _care_. Besides, I don't need to run by him who I can be friends with."

Dennis looks taken aback, glancing over at her. "Friends?"

"What do you think we are?" she can't stop the hurt from bleeding out now.

Dennis rubs a hand over his head, a nervous tic. "I'm nearly twice your age, Casey-"

"So?" she interrupts, anger and fear coursing through her. "Look, it's not like you're taking advantage of me here." 

Dennis has brought nothing but positive things to her life, but it wouldn't be seen that way in anyone else's eyes. She knows they were both taking a huge risk. If word gets around to the wrong people he loses his job and she loses any leniency or mercy John gives her. Dennis was taking responsibility for the inevitable downfall of it all now. But Casey has never cared what the world thought about her, and she was beginning to see that maybe Dennis does. 

"Do you want to stop talking to me?" she demands.

"I really don't."

"Then _don't_. Screw everything and everyone else, no one has to know. And you don't have to protect me, least of all from yourself."

A moment passes before Dennis nods, reluctant. "I admit," he begins, "I'm not the _best_ friend for you to have, far from it-"

"You're a _great_ friend. My best friend- well, my only friend, actually."

Dennis clenches his fists against the sink. "Alright," he says quietly, allowing her that.

" _We're okay?_ "

"Yeah. We're okay."

Casey sags against the chair, not realizing she was so tense.

Tension hangs in the room long after they've stopped talking and he's sat back down, gradually evaporating in the air with time while they drink their tea, the silence occasionally broken by the grating of the mugs against table. 

Casey looks up. "Dude..."

"What?"

Casey gestures to his face. "Your glasses," she states obviously, fogged up from the steam coming from his mug. 

Dennis removes them, wiping them with a yellow cloth and Casey snorts.

His mouth twitches. "What's so amusing to you?"

"I'm now wondering..." she smiles slowly, "the statistics for accidents caused by fogged up glasses, that's what's so amusing."

Dennis pulls them back on. "What? That's ridiculous, there's no such thing."

"You just have no imagination."

"I have plenty," he argues.

“It can’t be that hard,” she laughs. “Even _I_ can make a bowl of cereal with my eyes closed.”

“But we’re not talking about cereal when you’re half awake, Casey. Cooking with your glasses off is not the most logical thing I’ve ever heard- why are we still talking about this?”

“But how else do chefs with glasses cook. All that steam and constantly wiping the lenses. Do you just constantly turn your head while cooking to avoid it?”

"They wear contacts," he says.

"Not everyone wears those. _You_ don't wear those."

Dennis sighs for the third time since this conversation began. “And I’m telling you it’s not as difficult as you’re making it out to be.”

“But isn’t it annoying? Or, for instance,” she gestures outside to the dark, rainy view, “you’re outside and it’s cold and wet and then you go inside where it’s dry and warm and it’s like- _whoosh._ ” She spreads her hands. “ _The Fog_. And it's, like, instant panic. You know all that can happen in mere seconds when your glasses are fogged. Chaos. And if you get into a fight all the guy has to do is just breathe on you to gain the upper advantage.”

Dennis gives her his most unamused look so far. "Please, stop."

"Fine, fine..." she chuckles, picking up her mug. Casey finishes the last of her still warm tea, proceeds to lean forward on her elbows and blow on his glasses, fogging them up. The look of bewilderment on his face as she pulls back is priceless. She bursts out laughing and he purses his lips, put out, which only makes her laugh harder.

Dennis scrunches up his face and stands, taking both of their mugs. “I think you may have digested too much rain water out there,” he taps her on the head pointedly and makes his way to the sink.

Casey mock gasps and narrows her eyes, standing up to trail after him "You're just sour because I'm right."

"Want to dry?" he asks.

"Sure."

Casey reaches for the mug and Dennis takes the opportunity to grab her wrist. His other arm wraps around her waist and she’s being pulled off her feet like she weighs nothing, he bends down and she yelps as he lifts her off the ground and flips her over his shoulder. Casey shrieks and clings for dear life, fisting the back of his shirt. Dennis makes a swift turn and her stomach drops.

“Woah- no! No, no, no, no,” she laughs breathlessly. "Put me down. Dennis,” she squeaks when he spins her. “Put me down. This. Instant!”

“My glasses are fogged up so I can’t put you down.” He swings her again and she yelps louder, holding on tighter. “Do I put you down here?”

Casey tries to raise herself up and turn around to see. "On the floor? Is that how you treat me as a guest?"

Dennis carries her to the living room. “What about on the table?”

“No," she groans.

“Maybe I’ll drop you back in your natural habitat on the fire escape where I found you.”

“If you do that, I'm taking you down with me."

“I don't doubt it,” he says, carrying her over to the couch.

"Don't you dare drop me, Dennis Crumb," she demands.

"I'm not that cruel, I've got you." Without warning, his hands run down the back of her bare legs and her breath hitches at the sensation.

Dennis wraps an arm around the crook of her knees and hikes her up a bit to where she can balance her hands on his shoulders and slide down. Casey is confident that she'll never feel cold again now. And then she becomes extremely familiar with his body as its pressed flushed against hers on the careful descent down, feeling every dip and bulge as her body moves against his.

Her arms wrap around his neck and she presses her face into the crook of his neck, arousal coiling deep in her stomach. Casey bites her tongue to stop from whimpering as his hands trail up the back of her legs while she squirms lower, her skin tingling as his fingers caress and squeeze as they wrap around her hips. 

Casey feels his heart beating fast underneath her palm before she slides it away, her face burning by the time she touches the ground. His hands linger at her waist and she can feel his stare even after he steps away.

They both sit on the couch. Dennis digs into his pocket for the yellow cloth he always carries around and takes off his glasses.

"Here," she scoots closer and takes them and the cloth from his hand, cleaning them. Bringing them up, she squints her eyes to inspect them before he gingerly places them back on his face. "There," she says with a flourish and mock seriousness," I've saved you. You're welcome."

The room illluminates and the loud buzzing of her cell starts after and they both lean away, the sound abruptly halting her good mood. Casey gets up to grab it, reluctantly answering the call. 

"Casey, where the hell are you?" John says soon as she picks up. 

"Hey. I'm at the store," she says slowly, glancing back over at Dennis whose watching her. "I lost my key and my phone died so I thought I'd just wait it out here."

"Yeah?" he says interestedly, "okay, which store? I'll come and pick you up." she hears the jingle of his keys and heavy footsteps.

"No, it's fine," she says quickly. "I'll walk. It's only a few minutes away and," Casey looks out the window, "It's only a light drizzle. Can you just leave the door unlocked for me?"

"You be home in a few minutes or I'm coming to get you. I'll be waiting."

"Okay," Casey hangs up. "I guess I should go change then."

"You're a convincing liar."

Casey smiles bitterly. "You don't know my uncle."

"You two argue a lot," he states suddenly, catching her off guard.

"What?" She panics. "What'd you hear?"

"I hear him yell sometimes, especially during my first week here. He tries to be quiet about it, but he's a big guy with a big voice and the walls are thin."

"Yeah," she says, sitting back on the couch, relieved he wasn't talking about the _physical_ fights which happens less often.

"What does he yell at you for?'

"Small things. Big things. Mostly because he says I'm a burden that's always up to no good. I don't like him because he yells," she tells him, only half truths.

"You don't appear to be the misbehaving type. No more than any other teenager but what do I know."

"I get into trouble at school. Detention."

Dennis glances at her curiously, twists around to fully face her so she continues.

"But that's only so we don't have to be home at the same time."

"He shouldn't yell at you for any of those things."

"Did something like that happen with you?" she asks. "Is that why..." Casey gestures to the empty room.

Dennis sucks his teeth. "Something like that, yeah." 

"Oh..." Casey's mouth tugs up somberly. "Maybe that's why we get along so well. Maybe it's because we're the same."

"Don't say that," he says grimly, eyes hardening.

They're sitting closer than necessary, his fingers brush purposely against hers, sparking tiny, excited jolts low in her stomach. His eyes trail lower and there's no mistaking the appreciative gaze he gives her body. Casey squirms self consciously, a deep pleasure aching between her thighs.

They stare at each other, a weird, mutual feeling of intimacy acknowledged before Dennis moves away, runs a hand over his head, wiping what just transpired out of his mind. 

"You should get going," he murmurs. "I really shouldn't keep you any longer.

Casey really wishes he would.

"You know," she says on her way to the door. "I'm really glad you're my neighbor. I feel like I've always known you. Or l I was meant to know you...is that weird?"

"Not at all. I feel the same way," Dennis opens the door 

"Goodnight, Dennis."

"Goodnight, Casey."

 


	4. Trust

_'I have a surprise for you' C.C._

_'What's the surprise?'_

_'That's not how surprises work...' C.C._

Casey smiles, rolling over in her bed. She'd been texting Dennis on and off all Saturday morning since he'd left for work. Her uncle was watching television in the living-room, his loud laughter off putting but not enough for her to stay outside and catch sunburn in the heatwave, so Casey's been holed up in her room.

_'You know I don't like surprises.'_

_'Don't worry. It's a good one!' C.C._

_'When do you get off?' C.C._

_'I clocked out five minutes ago. Give me a hint?'_

_'Hint: it's pretty.' C.C._

Casey sits up to grab the paper bag at the foot of her bed and sets it on her lap, she turns her phone around and snaps a picture to send.

_'A bag, Casey? That's not how hints work.'_

Casey grins.

_'Tough.' C.C._

“Case,” John knocks outside her bedroom door. "Hey, Casey-Bear, you in there?”

Casey inwardly cringes at the childhood nickname and sighs. “I'm here," she replies dully, deleting the messages between her and Dennis.

"Well, open the door," he says lightly. "I need to talk to you."

Casey doesn't move, not trusting the casualness in his tone to be of any benign origins. Whenever John says he needs to talk it usually involves threats or physical punishments for some imagined grievance. "I'm in the middle of getting dressed."

"Hurry up, I have to talk to you."

Casey stares at the door, nervous and unsure of his intentions. The bolt lock may keep him out but it doesn't stop her from being on edge all the time. 

The thing she hates the most about John is not the yelling, goading, or even the blows, but the moments of deliberate, feigned ignorance and kindness he plays. The moments of unpredictably where he tries to bond with her, make her smile, and pretend as if everything's fine between them. She had to learn from a very young age not to be tricked or feel betrayed by the emotional whiplash. To not let his sly actions and words tear down her self doubt, twist her memories around, or make her forget all of the torment he's put her through.

It also scares her because she still bends to it; she knows that the desire doesn't come from hope but survival, because there are times where if she doesn't play along he'd turn the switch back off and drag her into the dark with him.

John bangs on the door, the force of his fist making it shake and she instinctively draws into herself.

"Why can't you just tell me what it is now," she says unevenly.

"Casey, _c'mon_ " he raises his voice, "open the door!" John begins banging again, relentless.

Casey gets out of bed with heavy limbs and a fluttering heart, there was always the chance that he had no ill intentions but the bruises and scars on her body tells her differently. With much hesitation, she unlocks the top bolt first, his banging so loud that he doesn't even notice. Hoping she isn't making a mistake, Casey cracks open the door.

John glares down at her and shoves it open further and Casey stumbles back, her stomach dropping, teeth gritting so hard her jaw aches. 

“About time," he says, breaking into a grin. "It takes you _that_ long to put on a shirt and jeans. Listen, Hank is coming over for lunch in a couple of hours, so I want you to be on your _best_ behavior.”

Casey's shoulders sag, both relieved and annoyed. “Do I have to come out?"

“Yeah, you do," he says, eyes hard.

"But, uncle John-"

"And you're going to help clean up the place before they get here" he says. "I'm about to go to the store. Fix your room up too while you're at it."

"Okay," she mumbles.

Casey shuts the door and locks it back, groaning. She hated when John had company over, even more so when she had to play guest. From the few times Hank's been over she's built a strong dislike for the man; in retrospect, he had to be terrible if he was friends with her uncle.

John is still out shopping when Dennis texts that he's home, so Casey grabs her bag and heads out on the fire escape.

Casey grins as he walks over to the window and opens it. "Any chance I can seek asylum in your apartment before my uncle finds me gone?"

"Sorry, but I have to catch an appointment soon."

"Who says you even have to be here?" Casey's eyes flicker to the black journals on his shelf, they haven't talked about them since that night. "I won't touch anything."

Dennis smirks. "Something tells me this is an obligation. Why are you trying to escape?" 

Pouting, she props a fist under her chin. "My uncle invited one of his hunting buddies over," Casey rolls her eyes. "For lunch. When neither of us can cook."

"Yeah?"

"I'll be forced to smile and socialize."

"Sounds terrible."

Casey narrows her eyes. "If you're mocking me you're not going to get your surprise, _mister_."

"Fair enough."

"Who do you have to meet?" 

Dennis stops. "No one important. So, where is my surprise?" 

Casey picks up the bag beside her, taking out the bouquet of flowers with a flourish. "Ta-da."

Dennis arches a brow. "Flowers? I should be getting you flowers."

"Oh? For what occasion?" she says cheekily.

Dennis clears his throat. "These for my vase?" he swiftly changes the subject, as he often does when she begins borderline flirting. "Are you putting them all in there?" he  takes the bouqet out of her hands.

"No, _you_ have to pick one."

Dennis hums thoughtfully while he looks down at the colorful assortment. "Sunflowers, roses, daffodils...you have an entire garden here."

"Well..." she grabs the vase on the edge of the sill and pulls it close. "Put a few in there and see which one you like better."

Dennis picks up a rose, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. Reaching forward, he brushes her hair back and tucks the flower in.

"I think your aim is a little off," she laughs.

He picks up a sunflower next and sticks that in her hair as well, and then a daffodil, he does this until she has one flower of each in her hair.

"Still undecided," he says, tapping a finger against his chin.

"How silly do I look right now?" she smiles. "Like a try hard tourist on their first trip to Hawaii?"

"You look beautiful," he says, serious. 

Casey's smile dims as butterflies fill her stomach. "But which one is best?"

"All of them compliment you." 

"One of each then." She blushes, plucking the flowers out of her hair.

Dennis stands. "I have to go now or I'm going to be late."

///

John blasts the country radio station as they clean, sings along loudly to the songs and drums his hands on his thighs.

"Hey, now  _this_  is a classic," he chuckles and nudges her shoulder, trying every tactic to get her out of her sullen mood. "We used to play this one non-stop when we went on hunting trips, remember?"

Casey shrugs and move away, only giving him an occasional smile or nod to placate him.

When the time draws near John reminds her, "you’re going to behave, okay? Smile, talk-”

“I get it, uncle John,” she snaps. 

"I mean it. _Talk_."

"I  _will_."

Hank is a short, thick guy with hunched shoulders, dark, beady eyes, and a wide mouth. His wife has blonde hair more suitable for the nineties, her face caked with too much make-up. Their daughter is a younger version of her.

The air soon turns thick and sweet with cigar smoke and a series of sharp, wet cracks as cans of beer open. They soon start to loudly reminiscence about old times and Casey sits in one of the kitchen chairs, smiling awkwardly and quietly answering the wife's barrage of questions.

She shares awkward glances with their daughter who appears to not want to be here either, more interested with staring blankly at the wall than talking with Casey. She isn't the least bit offended, she would escape to her room if she didn't need to tow her along.

Casey slips out her phone. 'Bored _out of my mind. :D' C.C._

_'Did you manage to cook anything?'_

_'We're having fancy sandwiches, a.k.a. hoagies' C.C._

_'Of course.'_

_'Whyyy.' C.C._

_'Hang in there.'_

_'I wish you were here so I could hang out with you instead.' C.C._

_'So do I.'_

Casey bites her lip to stop from smiling so wide.

“Off the phone, kid, geez,” John reprimands. “You’re always on that thing lately.”

Casey deletes the messages and slides her phone back into her jacket.

“Casey has a boy in her life yet?” Hank asks John.

John snorts. “No. God  _forbid_.” He gives her a knowing look. "Not until she's married."

Hank laughs. “Amen to that."

"What are your plans after you graduate, Casey?" Hank's wife asks. "Our Allison is going to community college to get her basics out of the way, she's going to be a massage therapist."

Casey shrugs pitifully. "I haven't really thought about it."

"I'm sure you must have something, dear," Barbara smiles expectantly.

"Um...traveling, I guess?" she opts, wishing she could leave now as far as she physically could.

John cocks his head, affronted. "Traveling, huh...and leave and forget all about your uncle."

"I dunno." Casey keeps her mouth shut, not wanting to make an issue out of it. John would never do or allude to anything in front of their guests but she knows he's going to bring it up later.

"Oh, don't be so protective," Barbara playfully scolds him. 

Hank laughs. "They all want to get out from under our wing so fast."

“Casey is still in those rebellious teenage years." John takes a swig of his beer, his eyes never leaving hers. "Thinks she's independent." 

"A firm hand and a strong foundation," Hank explains while nodding. "Two good parental figures is what keeps a child in line- no offense to you," he adds quickly, "but without a mother and father..." he gestures as if, 'there you go.'

Casey grits her teeth and immediately decides she doesn't dislike Hank- she _hates_ him. 

"You're out of line, out of line..." Barbara tuts, shaking her head

"No, I want to hear what the man has to say." John eagerly leans forward. "Discipline shouldn't stop when they're young - in my opinion - they'd end up an inmate or a mother."

"Yep. Kids need a good _smackdown_ every now and then," Hank says. "Especially these days. My wife babies my damn son too much and my girl over there- you should have seen what my _own daughter_ tried to wear to the beach-"

"Dad," Allison makes an _ugh_ sound. "Would you prefer I wear swimming trunks and _no_ shirt, like you?"

"It was just a two piece, Hank, calm down," Barbara interrupts, shaking her head.

"Aw, here we go, ganging up on me. Just a two piece?" Hank chuckles and jabs a thumb at Casey. "Let me tell ya, John, you keep that one in line.  You watch her." 

"Oh, I intend to," John smiles.

///

"Where are you going to go, huh?" John feigns casually as he shuts the door.

"What?" Casey looks up.

"When you travel? That's what you said you're going to do."

"I just made something up so she'd stop bothering me."

"Uh-huh," John says unconvincingly. "But..." he strides into the living room, "someone must have put that idea in your head. You don't just _make_ something up."

Casey squirms uncomfortably. "You're making a big deal out of nothing."

"Am I?"

John sits on the edge of the table across from her. "I don't know how you're going to get anywhere when you're barely passing and constantly in detention. No special skills whatsoever. No contacts."

"And whose fault is that," she says under her breath.

John stares at her, his expression closed off. "It's your fault. You don't put in the effort you won't get anywhere in life and end up more miserable than you already are, Casey."

"Is that what happened to you," the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them.

John leans back, eyes widening in surprise. "What the hell did you just say?"

"I can't put in effort if - what is it that Hank said - oh yeah, I don't have a _strong foundation_."

"No, say what you just said."

Casey shakes her head and begins to stand. John shoves her back down. He grabs a chair opposite and she flinches as it drags noisily against the tiled floor until it's inches from her. "Go on," he sits. "I'm listening. Repeat what you just said."

Casey holds his stare, presses her lips together.

A car horn blares loudly. Someone's door slams loudly in the building. The sound of footseps and children laughing.

“I guess your daddy never instilled in you how to speak to an adult," John says lowly, "never taught you enough about respect. _Big brother_..." he chuckles, shaking his head. "He barely came up to my damn shoulders and skinnier than a twig, even when we were kids, and he'd always called the shots. I'll be damned if I let a little girl do the same.”

"My dad was never mean to you."

"No," John snorts, "but he was weak. And yet somehow he got more. Was always...taller than me, in a way. And _you_ \- you treat me like _shit_. I do my best to raise you, give you everything you need. When are you going to show me some respect."

Casey crosses her arms and looks away.

John grips the leg of her chair and roughly pulls her forward, her back slamming against it.

"Say. It," he growls, leaning close.

Casey stays silent and tilts her chin up, holding his unwavering gaze.

His hand dashes forward and there's a stinging pain as he grips her jaw, her mouth opening uncomfortably under the force of his thick, stubby fingers. He shakes her head - back and forth, up and down - almost playfully, his thumb pressing harder and harder. A small, pained whimper escapes her throat.

"You forget," he drawls lowly, "huh?"

Casey tries to pull away, her hands flying to his fingers to pry them off but that only tightens his grip more and she cries out.

" _Huh!?_ " he says louder, lightly smacking his other hand against the side of her head.

Her phone buzzes loudly and he looks down, he lets her go and tries to reach into her jacket pocket. "Where is it?" he asks, trying to tug her jacket off. "Who you talking to, huh?"

Casey twists away. "Stop."

"Is that what's gotten into you lately. Think since you're old enough that you don't have to answer to me?"

"Let me go," she sneers, pushing his hand away.

"Because that's what you've been doing lately," John continues, voice getting louder, nearly pulling her out of the chair while tugging at her jacket. "And I think I've been a lot more lenient than I should have with you."

"Stop!" she shouts, shoving at his arms. Casey tries to kick back with her foot, using his chair as leverage.

"Give me your phone."

"No, it's _my_ phone," Casey argues.

"I'm your uncle," he threatens lowly, "and I said give me the _damn phone_!" John shoves his hand against her head and suddenly she's tilting back, her world rolling over until she no longer sees John but waves of blinding white.

Pain explodes at the back of her head and rings inside her skull, she gasps loud and sharp, the wind knocked out of her. Casey wheezes, struggles to breath. Squeezing her eyes shut, her fingers prod at the back of her searing, throbbing head.

"Get up, _get up_ ," she hears him snarl, panicked, her head rolling back as he grips her arm and hoists her up. "You stupid- you're fine," he tells her as she cries out, stumbling to stay upright. " _You're fine_."

"No," Casey sobs, trying to push him away, "let me go."

"I said you're _fine_."

Casey almost trips backward as she jerks away, blinking furiously to sharpen her blurred vision. She turns around and makes a run for her room.

"Casey," John calls out behind her.

She falls, smacking into what she thinks is the floor but she's still standing. Her hands sliding against the bumpy wall. Her mouth waters and she breathes slowly in an attempt not to throw up. 

"Casey, come here, _now_. You're being silly."

Casey manages to get through the threshold of her room. She's hyperventilating, tears welling. If her uncle had the desire to look at her phone and wonder why the person isn't saved in. Dennis' number may not be saved but all John had to do was call it.

Casey is shutting the door when John shoulders his way in, mouth tight and eyes hard. John grips the collar of her jacket and shoves her on the bed. "You shouldn't act suspicious if you've got nothing to hide," he says. "You put yourself through all this trouble for nothing."

"You hit me!" Casey screams.

"Shut. Up," he whispers harshly, stepping over her and cocking his arm back.

"No! Okay, please!" Casey places her hands in front of her and curls into herself.

The next blow doesn't come and she counts the seconds that pass, the only sounds of their heavy breathing.

"You always pull this shit," John leers over her, "and expect me not to do anything."

“I’ve never done anything to you,” she cries, feeling like her five year old self again first stepping into John's apartment, alone and hurting. "And you hate me."

"I hate you?" he seethes. " _I_ take care of you. No one else wants you, do you see anyone else here for you?"

"You didn't take care of me," the tears are flowing now, dropping onto her bent arm as she closes in further, blinking into the darkness she'd made for herself. "How can you call hurting me taking care of me?" Casey sucks in huge gulps of air, covers her ears, squeezes her eyes shut. “Something is wrong with you," her voice trembles, "seriously wrong."

Another shot of pain slices through her head again and John is on her, pushing her back, his hands gripping her neck and she can't _breathe_.

Casey kicks her legs, presses her hands against his face until he leans away from them, his hands still persistent around her throat. She claws and scratches at his wrists, fingernails coming back with skin and blood but it doesn't deter him, he can't feel it through the cloud of pure anger that bares his teeth and reddens the whites of his eyes.

Casey's breathing comes in and out raggedly. Her struggling weakens with the lack of oxygen, vision blurring around the edges. 

“I could hurt you if I wanted to, you know that? _I could really hurt you_ ,” John growls, his voice breaking with pure, blind hatred that truly frightens her.

John slams her head against the mattress several times and her arms fall limply against it, her body growing numb.

He lets her go and she rolls over, sucking in air like a fish out of water. She coughs violently, her hand going to her burning throat.

John shoves off of the bed and Casey sits there, still and on the edge of blacking out from pain and exhaustion. John gives her one hard, long look. "You count yourself lucky this time," he warns.

Casey stares at his retreating back as he barrels out of her room and down the hall. She pulls herself up once he leaves, a wave of emotions colliding inside her.

Calmly, she pushes herself up and swings her legs over the bed. Striding over to her desk, she sifts through the mess until she finds what she's looking for and heads out to the hallway.

John is bent over, picking up the chair when there's a knock on the front door. He looks up and Casey moves faster.

John turns around then to see her, looking startled. "What the hell are you-"

Casey stabs a pair of scissors into his back and he howls. She jumps on him before he can recover and retaliate, locking her arms and legs around him, pulling at his hair and pounding on his head with an animalistic scream. John stands up and attempts to shake her off, grabbing at her hands.

Someone bangs on the door again. "What the hell is going on in there!?"

Casey digs her nails into his cheek and tugs. John cries out and swings sharply to the right, Casey loses her grip and falls off with a pained gasp and quickly scrambles back up and dashes for her room. She slams it shut and locks it, John running into it a split second later.

John rams against the door, shouting her name like he wants to make promise on his threat now.

Casey has one leg out the window when the door breaks open and he barges in, splinters of wood flying but it doesn't slow him down. She's already out the window and turns to run when he pulls her back, his fists grabbing both her shirt and jacket.

"Get the fuck back in here," he growls. "I swear I'm gonna-" 

Casey bends down and bites his hand, _hard_ , John yelps and lets go while she stumbles backward into the railing.

Casey makes her escape down the stairs, the only thing keeping her from toppling over is the adrenaline running through her.

“Casey! You get back here!” John yells, forgetting all about propierty now. "Casey!"

She wheezes, fingers flying up to her bruised throat, the cool air piercing with each inhale. She gets wide eyed stares from the three kids - no older than ten - as she hurries down the fire escape.

 

///

 

Casey runs down the street aimlessly, pulling her jacket around tighter and keeping her head down. She's scared John will call the police, or worse, that he'll find her and finish what he'd started. Her hands are shaking in disbelief at what she just did.

Her neck aches and turning her head isn't an option unless she decides to turn the rest of her body with it. Her entire head is pounding, mouth dry, and her right side flares as she puts pressure on her foot. Her eyes dart left and right for a place to duck in where no one can think to look or bother her before she collapses over.

There's a small movie theater across the street, dark and quiet, it was perfect and only a few bucks a showing. Casey pays for the next film, unaware and uncaring of the details. The theater is only half full and she carefully eases down into a seat away from everyone, mindful of every motion she makes until she settles, remaining still as possible.  

Casey doesn’t know how long she sits there, drifting in and out of cconsciousness, her body wanting to shut down but her mind on high alert. The movie appears to have reached it's climax going by the large swelling of music and tearful declarations of love the next time she blinks away the numb haziness. Her phone buzzes and she fishes it out, there are several missed calls and texts from her uncle which is to be expected after one of his explosions. The texts read innocent enough: come home, it's late, where are you. She deletes them all and goes to her pitifully small number of contacts.

Casey’s thumb hovers over Dennis' number. She tosses the phone over in her hand, trying to think of what to say. She doesn't want to be an incovenience even with no other options to fall back on.

She wonders if he's at home, ready to yell at her for being a stupid teenager and attacking her uncle if John manages to spin his next story convincingly enough. Casey won't ever go back to that apartment with John there waiting for her. At least, that's what she tells herself until she's cold and starving out on the streets.

Casey lets out a choked sob and buries her hand over her eyes. She knows she can't sit here all night feeling sorry for herself or else she'd really regret it, so she presses the call button.

"Hello," she says, voice hoarse.

“Hey," he sounds surprised. "What's up? You never call."

Casey looks around the emptying theater helplessly, drawing her legs up to let people pass. "I know...I was wondering if- if it's not too much trouble...”

"Hey," she can hear the frown in his voice, the slam of his car door. "What is it? What's the matter?"

Casey swallows against the pain. "Can you come pick me up?"

“Where are you? What happened?”

"I-” Casey wipes away fresh, hot tears.

“Where are you?” he repeats, sterner this time.

Casey gives him the address before hanging up. She waits for the theater to empty before standing and heading for the bathroom.

Her neck is red and slightly swollen, welts and scratch marks abover her collarbone go aroumd the back of her neck. Casey buttons up her jacket before anyone can see it and fixes her hair the best she can. She grabs a few paper towels and wipes away her tear stained cheeks but can't do anything about the puffy, red eyes or pale skin. Casey stares blankly at the sad, sickly stranger she sees before herself in the mirror, wondering if things will ever get better. 

///

Casey still has no clue what to say - if she decides to say anything at all - when Dennis pulls up in a dark car.

"Thanks for coming," she forces out as she shuts the passenger door.

“Are you going to tell me what happened now?” he asks as he drives off.

Casey keeps her head down, leg jiggling nervously. Her mind is at war with itself, between rationality and fear, hope and shame. She doesn't understand why it's so difficult to open her mouth and say something, she feels the words clawing inside her looking for a way out, but her imagination runs wild in all the ways her confession can go wrong.

"Casey," Dennis gently pushes, glancing between her and the road.

"I don't want to go home," she says, her voice sounding small and strange to her own ears.

"Why?"

Casey slumps back against the seat and wraps her arms around herself protectively. "I just can't. "She bites her bottom lip to stop it from trembling, tells herself not to cry again.

The car slows down to a halt and red illuminates the interior, passes over her body, warm and bright and she thinks that this could be her soon enough- bloody and lifeless under John's fists. Casey's fingers fly to the collar of her neck at the thought, fear flooding her fast and heavy and she knows it's now or never.

Unclipping her seatbelt, Casey turns to face Dennis, worry tensing his brow and mouth pressed tight. Casey unbuttons her jacket and opens it up, her eyes glued to the floor as she slides it down her shoulders, revealing fresh and old bruises.

Dennis doesn't say anything for a long time. So long, in fact that red turns green again.

When he does speak it's low and dark, and if she hadn't glanced up she'd think it would've came from a different person. “Who did that."

A car horn blares from behind and Casey flinches. Dennis curses lowly and slams on the gas. He sharply pulls the car into an empty lot and parks, cutting the engine and blanketing them in darkness.

Dennis looks back at her, furious, and Casey feels as if she’s in a freefall. She knows the anger isn't directed at her but it doesn't stop her from crumbling under its weight. The calm and cool demeanor she was familiar with shifts to someone new and frightening.

She cringes back as his hand moves towards her, his fingers curling at the collar of her shirt, gently tugging it down to reveal her neck.

Dennis breathes heavily through his nose, mouth working angrily as he assesses the damage. His hand runs over her neck, thumb gently caressing over every welt and cut and bruise. 

“Who did this,” he repeats, low and gravelly.

Casey opens her mouth but nothing comes out. She can’t tell him the truth, but she can’t lie to him either. _Showing_ him was hard enough, to put a name to it will make it more real and suddenly everything was moving too fast.

“ _Casey_. _"_

“Please...” is all she says, her voice strained from the injury. She isn’t sure what she means or wants with that one simple word, whether to expose her uncle or disappear into the upholstery away from Dennis’ scrutiny.

“Where else,” he asks, moving his hands away as they clench and unclench. "They touch you anywhere else?"

Casey shakes her head. "No," she manages to say despite it feeling like she's suffocating all over again. "I'm sorry."

He leans back, panting, eyes bright and livid in the darkness. “You don’t have to be sorry- or scared, Casey. I just need you to tell me who did it.” It’s Dennis that sounds pained now.

Casey breathes deeply. In and out. In and out. She’s okay. She’s with Dennis. A friend. Someone she can trust to believe her and care.

“Was it a friend?" he demands. "Did someone meet you there, at the movies?”

“No,” she whispers, looking away.

“A boy? Stranger?"

"No."

Dennis shifts in his seat, grips her chin. "Look at me." His features tighten, steeling himself. "Was it your uncle?”

"Yeah," she breathes shakily.

Releasing her, Dennis jerks back as if stung. His eyes move over her, no doubt remembering all the times he's heard Casey and her uncle shouting at each other. “Alright,” Dennis says, grabbing her arm to pull her closer. “Come here."

Casey gladly leans into him and drops her head against his shoulder, clutches at his shirt. It makes for an awkward embrace in the confines of the car but it's the greatest thing she's ever felt. She closes her eyes, goes limp under his soothing touch, his hands running up and down her back.

And she feels…okay. Still scared. But it’s not the end of the world. She’s away from her uncle and he doesn’t know what's just happened. She’s with Dennis and she's safe.

“I need to take you to the hospital and call the police,” he says.

"No." Casey pulls back to look him in the eyes, her voice breaking. "It's just a few bruises."

"It's not just a few bruises."

"Calling the police won't help," she argues. "Not me. It doesn't matter if I call or my uncle calls. They always send the same guys over who don't want to be bothered, and they'll believe him before they believe me. I've ran away a lot of times before and they've taken me back and I get into trouble at school, they'll just send me back. _Please_."

Dennis looks uncomfortable with the idea but he nods anyway. "You'll stay at my place. We can check you over." His fingers caress over her neck again, his expression darkening. "I'm going to contact a friend-"

"No," Casey whimpers.

Dennis shushes her. "I'm going to make a call to a _friend_. I won't do anything you don't want me to do, Casey. Do you trust me?"

This time, Casey doesn't hesitate. "I do."

"I'll go around front, up the fire escape," she says when they get back to the building.

"Just be careful not to get noticed."

Casey keeps her head down as she trudges up the fire escape, everyone's curtains drawn shut and lights out, sleeping peacefully in bed. She can't stop from looking when she passes by her bedroom window, their apartment dark as well. Her bedroom door hangs off it's hinges, blanket halfway off the bed, chair overturned.

"You'll sleep in my room," Dennis says once she ducks into his apartment. "But right now I need you to stay awake for me."

"I'm sorry," she blurts out, wringing her hands. "I didn't mean to get you into this."

Dennis reaches for her wrist, tugs her close. "Stop apoligizing. You haven't gotten me into anything I didn't want. Okay?" 

"Okay," she echoes.

Before second guessing herself, Casey presses a kiss to his cheek, her lips tingling against his short stubble. "Thank you," she whispers.

Dennis grips her tighter as she kisses him against the jaw this time, filled with affection and love that she can't put into words yet. He gently pushes her away, his grip firm on her arms and presses his forehead to hers. 

"I promise that I won't be in your way for long," she says.

Dennis frowns. "You can stay here as long as you want."

Casey leans away, regards him closely, maybe if she stared long and hard enough shells be able to read his mind. "You mean that."

"I always mean what I say." 

"Except there's the matter of my uncle next door," she points out, panic seizing her so suddenly she feels nauseous all over again.

Dennis bristled, straightening to his full height, eyes flitting towards the wall where her apartment lays in permanent chaos. "Listen, Casey, you don't worry about your uncle anymore."

Casey can't stop the shiver that runs through her at the power and confidence behind his words. While she's never had reason to hope before given her track record, she's now desperately clinging to his words that everything will turn out okay. She has to. Because if she doesn't-

A series of knocks on the door makes her jump, her hand wraps around his in a vice grip.

"Its okay," Dennis tells her, gently prying her fingers from his. Three knocks again, Dennis goes over to open the door. Shifting anxiously as she hears him speaking lowly, a woman responding, Casey hesitantly takes a few steps forward. At the door was an elderly woman with a head of white, curly hair, her bright eyes sharp and troubled behind her glasses. 

"Dennis," she hears the woman say, "what have you gotten yourself into?"


	5. Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He likes Casey in ways that he shouldn't...

“You must be Casey,” Dr. Fletcher moves past Dennis and offers a hand to her. "It's nice to finally put a face to the name." She smiles warmly before throwing a rather telling look back at Dennis that spells trouble for him. "I only wish it were under better circumstances, dear."  
  
"Hi," Casey replies, awkward, gaze flitting to Dennis. "Um-"  
  
"My name is Dr. Fletcher," she says, stepping back and nudging up her glasses and gets a proper look at the state of her.  
  
Dennis watches as Casey slowly processes that information, a flicker of emotions passing over her face; confusion and surprise standing at the forefront. "Not the kind of doctor for this, I'm guessing." Casey gestures to her neck.  
  
"I'm afraid not. How are you holding up?"  
  
"Better. Thanks to Dennis."  
  
Casey must sense that he's gotten himself into some hot water by calling Dr. Fletcher over, becaube she quickly excuses herself to the bathroom, no doubt aware of the thickening tension choking the room. Dennis tries not to buckle under the pressure of habing the two most important people in his just meet.  
  
When the door clicks shut Dr. Fletcher turns to Dennis with an expression that could wilt the most stubborn person into a blubbering mess. "Explain." She crosses her arms and arches an eyebrow as if to say it better be a damn good explanation.  
  
“There’s nowhere else for her to go," he says, getting straight to the point. "And I’m not dropping her off at some shelter.”  
  
Dr. Fletcher rubs her temples and lets out a lingering sigh, professional demeanor dropping into one of thinly veiled frustration. He has the highest respect for Dr. Fletcher, of which he can't say about many in her line of work, and she's completely justified in her anger with him right now.  
  
"So you bring her here?" Dr. Fletcher closes in on him, drops her voice so they can't be overheard. "Dennis, are you fully aware of where this might lead you."  
  
"I am," he answers evenly.  
  
"At the worst of times, this was inappropriate but due to the circumstances- now, it's incriminating. This has gone too far, you must know that. And yet you're still willing to keep her here."  
  
"Yes. Unless she wants to leave," he argues, tensing as he gears up for the interrogation that's about to come.  
  
Dr. Fletcher closes her eyes. "Do you think she will be safe?” she speaks in that slow, careful way, giving him time to do some much needed self reflection.  
  
"She will," he says firmly. "I know what this looks like, Dr. Fletcher."  
  
She shakes her head, holding a hand up to ease him. “I trust you, Dennis. And I can see your reasoning - your fears - behind your actions. Aside from your...predilection, your own past could color this situation; and I hope it isn't in red. There is a good chance that you will unconsciously project your own past onto this young woman. This is like an addict moving in with a recovering one with both their drug of choice right next door.”  
  
“I know this, but she’s my friend."  
  
"And I can see how deeply you care for her," she says, warning clear in her tone.  
  
Dennis scowls. "I called you here for a reason." He looks at her, desperate. "Do you trust me, Dr. Fletcher?"  
  
"I haven’t encountered a single patient with darker urges having acted upon them. As I always say in our sessions: your fears are unfounded. I'm the last person you should be worried about.” Dr. Fletcher glances back at his door. “Why were you so adamant over the phone that I come.”  
  
Dennis loudly exhales, the anxiety sticking in his throat easing just a little. “Because I can barely keep myself together right now," the words come out low and hot. Anger beating against his rib cage like sticks in a furnace, smoke climbing up and clouding his mind. His judgement. "He could have killed her. You should see 'em, he's...a bear of a man laying his hands on a kid."  
  
Dr. Fletcher clasps a comforting hand on his arm but her eyes are hard and stern. "Dennis. If you really do care you will keep yourself together right now and for the forseeable future. For her. Don't go and do anything stupid."  
  
Dennis rubs a hand over his face irritably. “She’s gonna need proof if she does decide to go to the police. Maybe you can convince her to take some photos? I’m sure her neck wasn’t the only thing injured but I didn’t want to ask." He spares a glance at Casey's door, that swell of rage filling him to the brim, threatening to spill out again.  
  
Dr. Fletcher is staring at him, wary.  
  
"I need some air," he says, "couldn't leave her alone.”  
  
Dr. Fletcher doesn't respond, just pats him on the arm and heads back inside his apartment.  
  
It feels as if someone is sucking the air right from his lungs. He can't even make it past her uncle's door, images flashing behind his eyelids of coming back and finding the worst scenario. One of the neighbors pokes their head out questionably and he wonders how long they've been spying through their peephole, face pressed against their door straining to listen in. The glare he sends their way is enough that no questions are asked.  
  
Dennis doesn't go anywhere, just paces back and forth by his door like a guard dog. His paranoia of coming back to a bloody apartment too strong. Violent and sadistic bloody fantasies plays vividly through his mind, some that involve her uncle; he has a taste for it, a need to put those thoughts into action, these things he'd learned from his mother.  
  
The idea that he could be just like her uncle douses that fire in his chest for now, leaves him cold and anxuous. The fact he could go back inside and wait for Dr. Fletcher to leave, none the wiser, so he can take what he wants from Casey. Take the rest of the strength and hope she has left...she'd kissed him - twice - he could still feel the cool pressure of her mouth against his dirty skin. It makes him sick.  
  
He likes Casey in ways that he shouldn't, isn’t completely sure where his feelings for her end and where the obsessive thoughts begin and it scares him. What does it say about him to have these thoughts and to be told they have nothing to do with how he really feels. That it’s out of his control. Only to fall for someone whose age fits into this obsessive criteria? Either way, whether she likes him or not, Dennis would be taking advantage of her and will feel like a monster regardless. She's been through enough and if it were up to him his attraction to her would be the farthest thing from his mind. But it's a constant fear.  
  
Dennis had damned himself the moment he saw her face. He knows he needs to do better for them both. He'd wanted nothing more than to keep her away from his shit, the mess and darkness he'd inherited but now she has to know the truth about him. For her own safety.  
  
Dennis doesn't know how long he's been pacing out there when Dr. Fletcher opens the door, more calm then when she'd left him. "Casey's a tough young woman," she tells him.  
  
His mouth quirks up at that. "Yeah, she is."  
  
Dr. Fletcher looks torn at what she's about to say next. "Dennis," she begins, reluctant and somber. "Now that I know I'm as much responsible for her wellbeing as you are...the second I have any doubt-"  
  
"I know," he cuts in, suddenly exhausted, shoulders sagging.  
  
"I'm not entirely sure who is the hunter and who is the prey in this situation, Dr. Fletcher sighs, "I don't know how much you've told her about yourself but she needs to know everything."  
  
His smiles turns grim, self deprecating. "I know."  
  
"Be careful."

///

Casey pushes the blanket off and struggles to sit up, that simple action alone is enough for her to want to bury back under the covers. Dennis had been persistent about her taking the bed despite her protests, she doesn't know what good it would've been either way. Her body feeks on fire, every part of it tender and aching.

  
Casey smooths a hand over her throat and winces, a whimper escaoing through her pinched lips. Bruises always hurt worst the day after you get them and she definitely feels like one giant bruise. Luckily for her, there's a glass of water and two pills on the bedside table and she eagerly takes them before laying back rown, waiting for them to take effect.  
  
Eventually, Casey has to get out of bed so she rolls over with a groan and somehow manages to get herself up on both feet, panting and sweating a little.  
  
The smell of coffee hits her as she gradually shuffles down the hallway to find Dennis in the kitchen. "You're not at work," she croaks, surprised.  
  
Dennis glances over his shoulder. “I’ve taken the day off. Sit."  
  
Her face grows warm as he's apparently taken into consideration her sore threat with oatmeal and eggs. He looks as if he's had the same trouble sleeping as she did. Something tells her it wasn't due to the couch.  
  
Casey rolls up the long sleeve shirt he'd given her last night and bemusedly realizes they're matching. At least her humor isn't gone. "Thanks."  
  
"Tea?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
Dennis grabs a mug from the cabinet, feels it up.  
  
"Does it looks as bad as it feels?" Casey gestures to her neck that his eyes keep flickering too.  
  
He grimaces. "Yeah," he mutters. "I still think you should go to the police."  
  
Dennis slides over a mug of black tea over (nearly saved by the honey and lemon) and she hates the taste but swallows it down anyway. "They've never given me much reason to trust them."  
  
Dennis sits across from her, fidgeting with his own mug.  
  
"Dr. Fletcher seems really nice."  
  
"She is," is all he says, clearly uncomfortable with bringing her up.  
  
They finish eating in silence.

///

There'snot much Casey can do in her condition and nothing to entertain herself with, so when she sees Dennis has changed into workout clothes she pouts. "Where are you headed off to?"

"Nowhere," he says, heading down the hall.  
  
Casey frowns and gets up from the couch as he disappears into one of the rooms.  
  
It's a workout room.  
  
There's several open storage containers screwed on the wall filled with towels, yoga mats, headphones, gloves, and a pair of battered sneakers. A small stereo is in one corner and a few dumbells and kettlebells of various sizes in another. There's a boxing bag mounted to the ceiling by a chain link. A grappling dummy. There are four, sleek wall-to-floor mirrors on one of the walls, and two mats lay in the center of the floor.  
  
"Nice." Casey immediately goes over to the punching bag and takes a pitiful hit, her aching muscles flaring up in protest. "Didn't know you had all this."  
  
"Use it for tension."  
  
Casey puts her fist up and mock glares at the punching bag ignoring her screaming body, shifting left to right and throwing a few, actual quick jabs before stopping the bag with a grin. But Dennis is looking at her seriously and she tries not to hide behind the bag.  
  
"Have to learn to strengthen your stance," he says. "But you throw well."  
  
"How do I do that?"  
  
Dennis comes over to stand beside her and gets into what she assumes is standard fighting pose. "You widen your legs a bit -yeah. Knees locked. Feet faced apart. Fists up. Don't use your dominant hand first, that's your kill hand."  
  
Casey actually laughs at that, wondering if he's serious as she jabs into the air in front of her.  
  
"Now, when you throw a punch you need to put your weight into it, that's where the power comes from. Then height or weight disadvantages won't matter to your opponent when you bring 'em down."  
  
Casey mimicks him a few times. "Got it. What else you got, coach?"  
  
Dennis arches his brow, amused. "Not the best thing to get up to even while on painkillers."  
  
"I can handle it," she says, her body disagreeing.  
  
She can tell Dennis doesn't buy it, even as he nods. "All right. First, breathing techniques - yes - it's essential," he says when she's about to argue. "Then we stretch."  
  
Casey doesn't even get halfway through stretching before she's sitting in the corner, glaring at his smug face, the effects of the pills dulled. Even breathing deeply and holding it in had proved difficult but she now understands how to use it for her advantage when moving about and striking.  
  
Dennis had been serious about his offer though - just not at this moment - and she watches as he shows her some of the basics. She finds it thrilling in a way that hasn't caught her attention since hunting. Maybe that's because Dennis looks ways too good working up a sweat.

///

Casey doesn't think they're going to talk about the kiss and pile on more trouble than necessary. Maybe it hadn't meant the same thing to him as her. But as the day goes on she can tell that something is bothering him.

///

It's two days later when Casey wakes to the sound of banging. Heart hammering, she slides out of bed and hurries down the hallway, following the source to the kitchen.

“Dennis?” she calls out, brow furrowing.  
  
He has his back to her, hunched over, his movements bordering on frantic as he searches for something in the drawer, muttering to himself. He slams the drawer closed, it's contents rattling inside as he pulls open another one.  
  
Casey calls his name again but he pays her no mind, his chest heaving and large frame wracking with shudders as he noisily sifts through the drawer. He looks half mad, in a way she's never seen him before, the shadows playing on his face to twist him into a completely different person. She jumps as he slams the next drawer closed, pulls open another, his breathing ragged and uneven, desperate to find whatever he's searching for.  
  
Casey's eyes follow his every move, wary that he'll lash out even though the rational side of her tells her he would never hurt her. Chewing on her bottom lip, Casey takes a cautious step into the kitchen, eyes wide as he suddenly freezes and leans over the counter, hanging his head.  
  
"Dennis," Casey calls out weakly, placing a hand on his arm. He shrugs her off and she hurriedly moves a few paces back.  
  
Slamming the drawer he's leaning over closed, he sighs, short and hoarse. "I can't- I can't find it," he stutters, gesturing helplessly to the drawers.  
  
"Find what? What are you doing?" In the past couple of days Casey has seen Dennis anxious about certain things and they'd talked about his way of living- the cleaning and organizing and everything having to be in ita right place. How he's told her hesh aware of these habits, this irrational discomfort he feels when things aren't perfect, and she'd thought she understood.  
  
But she hadn't anticipated this.  
  
"What can't you find?" Casey repeats, keeping her tone light and casual despite the growing worry eating at her insides.  
  
"The cloth," he mutters.  
  
Casey feels her heart breaking at the defeat in his voice, the embarassment. "The yellow cloth?"  
  
Dennis nods, features tight with shame. He turns his face away from her.  
  
"I- I don't know," she says, feeling useless. "You usually keep it on you." Casey looks around as if it will conjure itself through sheer will. "Just...wait here, okay? I'll go find it."  
  
Casey checks his coat hanging near the door, the living-room closet, the bathroom- nothing.  
  
Biting her lip, she heads back into the kitchen to find him curled up against the cabinets. Casey does her best not to show how scared she is.  
  
"Dennis."  
  
"Stay away from me,” he grounds out, making her freeze. Sighing, his face falls, he looks up at her apologetically. “I-I-I'm tying to be okay. I'm trying to be good.”  
  
Fighting against her instincts, Casey closes the short distance between them and kneels down in front of him. “But you're already good,” she tells him, tries to comfort him, reaching out to touch him.  
  
Dennis' face scrunches up and he shakes his head. "No,” he whispers, “I'm not.”  
  
"Yes, you are,” she snaps back, hard and defiant, unwilling to watch him spiral down whatever dark thoughts taking over him.  
  
Casey reaches out for him again but he presses back against the cabinets, eyes wide. She quickly pulls her hand back.  
  
"I'm not always good,” Dennis’ voice stutters, forces the words out like he's having a hard time confessing so to her.  
  
"Why do you say that?" Casey speaks slowly, throat tight and heart aching.  
  
"Up here." Dennis taps his finger against his temple. "It just is. It's there...it's not going away." Dennis shakes his head again, self disgust and anger written over his features, his hands clenching and unclenching.  
  
"Okay," she whispers, afraid that if she speaks any louder she might hear the tremor that's taken over her body, erupting into a full sob.  
  
"You really shouldn't be here,” Dennis warns, chest heaving. “You need to get away from me right now."  
  
"I'm not leaving,” she hears herself say,crawling over to sit next to him, their legs knocking into each other. Flinching, Dennis edges away from the contact leaving her feeling cold and alone, she tries not to feel hurt. “I trust you,” she says, leaning down to try to get him to just look at her but he won't. “I know who you are and who you aren't."  
  
"Should cut my hands off,” Dennis mutters, not even listening to what she's saying.  
  
That alarms her. "I won't let you, I'm calling Dr. Fletcher." Casey doesn't know how the woman would respond to Dennis' episode and what that might mean for her current living arrangements but she doesn't care,  she'd rather go back to her uncle than having him self harm.  
  
Dennis reaches out as if he's going to grab her, thinks better of it and whispers, "don't."  
  
Casey rises to her feet, her eyes on him the entire time. "I'm going to look for your cloth."  
  
She keeps him in sight as she searches the living-room. Dr. Fletcher had told her before she'd left that night to be brave for the both of them, but this was way out of her own comfort zone. Her hands are shaking as she searches high and low in the drab colored apartment for any bright shade sticking out of place.

Five minutes later, Casey comes up triumphant with the yellow cloth in her hands, which somehow had been lodged between the cushions.

Casey hurries back to the kitchen, relief flooding through her as she sits next to him and hands him the cloth, ignoring the pain she feels as he’s careful not to touch or look at her.

Dennis clutches the cloth and brings it to his lips, reciting prayers under his breath. She's never known him to be a religious person, this whole situation is out of character for him. He keeps his eyes on the floor the entire time, minutely rocking back and forth. When the last word dies on his tongue, he sighs, eyes fluttering shut.

It takes a moment longer but eventually Dennis stops rocking and relaxes. He looks exhausted by the end of it, shivering, shirt damp with sweat.  
  
Casey knows from experience that you can't fix what's wrong with people like them with empty promises of "it will get better" and it could, in fact, be disrespectful and completely unwanted. So, she opts to stay sitting beside him in the dark and not say anything, ride this thing out with him and make sure he's safe. He asks her to tie his wrists together with the cloth, apologizing all the while, assuring her that it's necessary. He deserves it. He'll explain later. She's not sure he's in the right state of mind to make promises but she puts on a brave face and does it anyway.  
  
Dennis gets up with more ease than he should with his wrists taped together, face pale and sickly. He heads down the hall, shouldering himself into the bathroom. A moment later and she hears him throwing up.  
  
Pushing her hair back, Casey moves away from the door and begins pacing in the kitchen. "Shit," she whispers, harsh and nervous. She's at a complete lost here. She knows Dennis has demons that he's fighting but she's never known the extent of it as far as a spotless house and damn near isolation. It wasn't until she'd met Dr. Fletcher that the first seed of doubt that this was something bigger was planted.  
  
Maybe this was the worst of it. Maybe he's adjusting to her being here. But that explanations seems too simple for the way he’s behaving right now.

///

"Does that happen a lot?" She wraps her arms around herself when he finally comes out of the bathroom, looking as if he'd just been to hell and back.  
  
"I'm sorry you had to see that," he rasps, gaze stuck to the floor.  
  
Casey cautions a steps closer and this time he's too exhausted to get away, to demand her step back. She wraps her arms around him and holds her the same way he did for her days ago. Casey doesn't really know the guideline to comforting somebody who is upset, certainly not under this particular circumstance, she just holds him tighter and hope it's enough.  
  
She smooths a hand over his back, runs her fingers over his shorn hair and he sags heavily against her, shuddering. She hopes that he can't feel the way her heart is beating rapidly in her chest, or the way she's shaking too. She needs to be strong for him now, for the both of them.

"I'm not going to judge you," she whispers. "Whatever...this is, I'm not going anywhere. It's going to be okay."


	6. Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've had a really shitty day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Harry Potter spoilers for those living under a rock! Smut which I am appalled at having written!
> 
> Song inspo for this chapter: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=xwS0FAjVDh0

"I need to talk to you."  
  
Panic should be settling in at those words, instead a warm feeling washes over her as she watches him button his shirt early in the morning. Being a light sleeper, she's been awake ever since he'd crept into the room this morning. It's still dark out, dull light filtering in through the blindfolds, birds fluttering and chirping on the fire escape.  
  
Dennis sits on the edge of the bed, frowns down at the floor. “I'm sorry about last night, sorry that you had to see that. Deal with it."  
  
Casey sits up. “You already apologized. It’s okay.” What she says next is less gentle, more firm and worried. “But I need to know what you aren't telling me.”  
  
"I know. I shouldn't keep things from you." Dennis pulls one of his journals from the jacket laid out next to him and places it on her lap.  
  
Casey quickly grasps it, afraid that he may change his mind. She'd pushed those little black books from her mind so easily before, holding it now...it feels a lot heavier than it looks. Glancing up, she sees how unsettled he is just from her touching it. “I don’t want to look inside this if it makes you uncomfortable.”  
  
“You need to," he says roughly, slowly turning to face her, expression grim.  
  
Casey stares back at him, heart clamoring up her throat. “Are you saying that because you hope it makes me uncomfortable?” it's meant to be a joke but it starts nervously and ends flat.  
  
“It’s therapy for my OCD,” Dennis admits, quiet and tired. “I don’t want you to be frightened of the things I say or do sometimes. Or, at least understand why. It's not an excuse...” he trails off awkwardly, shrugging.  
  
"Okay.” Leaning over, she slides her hand around his arm, squeezes it reassuringly as she clenches the journal in her other hand. "You're not very scary though." It's technically a half truth.  
  
Dennis scrunches up his nose in that way of his when he disagrees with something.  
  
When he stands Casey frowns. "Shouldn't I look into this while you're here?"  
  
Dennis shakes his head, fidgets with the cuffs on his shirt. “Better if I don't.”

He closes the bedroom door and Casey flops back on the bed with a sigh, pressing the journal to her chest.

///

She spends the morning putting off opening the journal or the many lining the shelves, instead scrolling through job listings on her phone and filling out a few applications. As for school, she's missed a few days so far but that wouldn't hurt; her bruises, however, are still excruciating while they gradually heal.  
  
Casey eyes the journal on the coffee table like she has been doing all morning. The vivid memory of his reaction the last time she'd picked one up was worrying. What could be inside waiting for her that he could barely look at her?  
  
Sighing, Casey focuses on a slightly less complicated task like retrieving some of her clothes. She can't continue wearing his no matter how much she likes the way his eyes linger.  
  
Substituting one fear for another is not the healthiest way to deal but Casey heads toward the window anyway. Pausing, she swiftly turns back around and goes into the kitchen. She grabs one of the larger knives tucked away in the drawer. Just in case.  
  
She knows it would be smarter to wait for Dennis to come back before doing this, but she can't rely on him for every little thing. She hadn't when living with John and she was far too old to lean on some form of parental figure, even more so considering her feelings for him. It was time for her to take charge in her own life for once.  
  
Her bedroom door is still off its hinges, only hanging on by a few nails, wood chips and flecks of paint scattered on the floor. The window is still unlocked. Slowly, she pushes it up, stopping whenever it groans or squeaks until it's wide enough to climb inside.  
  
Grabbing her school bag first, she tosses it out on the fire escape where it lands with a dull clang. She grabs another bag for clothing and begins stuffing as much as she can inside.  
  
A loud noise comes from somewhere in the apartment and Casey rushes behind the bed, crouching down to her stomach, the knife handle digging in her hip. John isn't supposed to be home at this time. After a few moments of hearing nothing else, she rises with an inaudible sigh and continues her task.  
  
She knows she’s pushing her luck now but she half runs across the hall into the bathroom to grab some necessities. Casey is closing the cabinet and making sure nothing is noticeably out of place when she hears the front door slam and pound of footsteps. She eyes her door, just six or so steps away, trying to figure out if she'll have enough time to dart back into her room and out the window.  
  
Casey quickly slips into the tub behind the half closed curtain, sliding down and watching beyond the plastic yellow ducks in a background of blue waves. The curtain is thick enough so no one can see behind it, unfortunate for her as she doesn’t know what will happen next.  
  
"I haven't heard or seen from her," John grumbles and then falls silent for a moment before saying, “she's never been gone this long. I'd give it another day before she cracks, she's got nowhere else to go.”

Casey's eyes widen as his footsteps grow nearer. Into the bathroom. She's thankful that she hadn't been so foolish to turn on the light.

“Maybe this time she'll learn her lesson,” John huffs, the sound of whoever he's speaking to over the phone faint and agreeable.

The squeaky faucet turns on and John chuckle, makes plans with his friend to cut loose after work with a couple beers.

Casey breathes shallowly, eyes darting back and forth around the curtain, her fingers gliding over the knife’s cool blade.

John splashes water on his face, coughs and wheezes. The sound of pills clamoring inside a small bottle. He takes forever while she waits and waits and waits. 

A drop of water drips from the showerhead and onto her scalp. Her foot is sliding from its awkward position at the tub’s curve.  
  
"I'll ask around. Keep a look out for her, don't need anyone on my ass because she threw a damn fit."  
  
Part of John's arm comes into view where the curtain stops short, grabbing one of the towels from the rack. Her hand twitches against the knife’s handle, heart beating painfully. The faucet finally turns off and he finally heads out of the bathroom and further down the hall.

Casey exhales, the curtain billowing with the weight of her relief. A door clicks shut and she stands on shaky feet, knuckles white as they grab the lip of the tub.

She nearly slips and automatically grabs the curtain and the metal rod scrapes loudly against the bathroom tiles in protest.  
  
Hopping out of the shower, she runs back into her room right before the shower curtain crashes down and echoes against the tub, ringing in her ears. She’s already out the door and the window is down before she hears John barreling down the hallway. He’ll chalk the incident up to weak holding and nothing more.  
  
After calming down from that scare she decides that whatever is in Dennis' journal can't be half as bad. And she can't put it off any longer as time ticks by, fast and intimidating. Dennis sitting next to her while she went through them would be awkward for both of them.  
  
Casey picks up the journal.

///

She doesn't know what the hell she's looking at or how to make sense of it. Journal after journal, she flips through the pages with an increasingly weak stomach. Like watching a trainwreck in motion, she has to force herself to stop and move away. Piles of dark secrets stacked in front of her on the floor, twice as horrible as she'd imagined. Some are stray thoughts, observations and what-ifs. Others are sickeningly detailed and threatening, she'd startled with every small sound that had pulled her from reading.

She wants to call him and demand that he comes back home and explain this to her. To wake up and realize that she's dreaming.

///

Casey hops on a bus on the way to Dr. Fletcher's office, the address having been written down by the woman herself with the promise that she can stop by day or night. She didn't think she would need it, couldn't imagine why.

The place is cozier than she would have expected as she wanders around, the colors warm and the scent of vanilla in the air. Dr. Fletcher sits patiently in her chair.

Casey works up the courage to tell her about the incident the night before and there was a change in the doctor's face as she'd listened intently, not one of surprise-as if she knew this was inevitable.

"I read his journals today,” Casey adds to the end of the story.  
  
"What did you think?"  
  
Casey narrows her eyes and frowns because she did not come here for a therapy session. "He should have told me. Or not. Not like this."  
  
"No, he shouldn't have,” Dr. Fletcher agrees, mirroring her disappointment. "Would the two of you have ended up so close if he did?"  
  
"I don't think so," Casey quietly admits.  
  
"Do you wish he could take it all back now?”  
  
"No.” She runs a hand through her hair, sighing. “I wanted to talk to him. I don't regret that." Casey is sure of it. "Did you know he was talking to me since the beginning?"  
  
"He didn't tell me until long after he'd went into your uncle's apartment and exchanged numbers with you. I realized there was a change in his behavior before then but wanted him to tell me when he was comfortable."  
  
"And that was okay with you? Knowing that he has this- this urge." Casey says, repeating what she'd read countless times in his journals. She takes the seat across from Dr. Fletcher.  
  
"One of the things I do here for OCD patients such as Dennis is Cognitive Behavioral Therapy. During that process we have what we call Exposure and Response Prevention."  
  
Casey blinks, sudden realization dawning on her. "I was the exposure for him."  
  
Dr. Fletcher nods emphatically. "When Dennis happens to confront what is making him anxious - young girls, in this instance - he makes the choice to prevent acting on that compulsive behavior."  
  
"Which is to..." she can't even repeat the more explicit words that was written without being on the brink of tears.  
  
"Watch them dance naked,” Dr. Fletcher finishes, making it all sound so simple.  
  
"By force if he has to,” Casey says. Was she just some experiment to him? Something for them to analyze in his sessions along with his journals?  
  
Dr. Fletcher frowns. "In theory, of course.” Casey opens her mouth and she waves away her worries. “Dennis has never acted on this, is terrified by the thought of it and went decades without understanding why he was having these thoughts."  
  
"Is knowing that he never acted on it is supposed to make me feel better?" she says bitterly, sagging against the chair.  
  
Dr. Fletcher hums, a faint smile on her face. "No. But I hope knowing this information will. What I can say is that Dennis cares for you and considers you his friend."  
  
Biting her lip, Casey looks down at her twisting hands, her throat constricting as she tries to swallow the next words down. "His friend? Or an obsession?"  
  
"Dennis survived an abusive childhood at the hands of his mother- you'd have to ask him for the details,” she says as Casey looks back up, curious. “There are a lot of moving parts into why I believe he is so devoted to his relationship with you, that doesn't have to do with what you've read in those journals."  
  
"Got it,” Casey says, half-heartedly, needing time for everything to sink in

Right now all she feels is numb. “Thanks."  
  
Dr. Fletcher stands when Casey does, both sensing this conversation is over for now, and walks her to the door.

"I can't say this relationship I've seen or heard so much about is entirely healthy,” Dr. Fletcher admits. “But recovering and rebuilding isn't as pretty or fast as the pamphlets and films make it out to be. I can't even say where it will lead but I won't discourage him - or you - from this friendship."

"I feel like he's been trying to push me away these last few days."  
  
"You're angry.” Dr. Fletcher nods in understanding.  
  
"I'm furious. I feel...betrayed,” she huffs.

She was also hurt. Confused. Embarrassed. She'd kissed him. Was he disgusted by that and it's why they haven't talked about it? Was he planning for it? No, that last thought was too cruel for him to do. Casey knows he isn't like that. Besides, he'd been flirting back with her on occasion, or at least she'd thought.

"I'm sorry, I should be talking to him about this."

"You're going back?" Dr. Fletcher asks incincieduously. "Even after everything you know."  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You know you don't have to stay with him to remain friends. Dennis won't cross that line, I'm sure of it. But there are other options available, Casey, if you're unsure or afraid." Dr. Fletcher herself looks worried about the outcome and Casey tries to not let that affect her.  
  
"I'm tired of running away. Of not doing anything.” Casey tilts her chin up, appearing much braver than she feels at the moment. “I'm not afraid of him. And Dennis is a good person. We...we fit. He'd never hurt me. He'd never do that."

  
She repeats that mantra all the way back home.

///  

Casey is climbing up the steps to the fire escape when she finds herself blocked by a little boy. He looks around ten, short brunet hair, possibly too old to be wearing the bright red cape around his shoulders. He's crying.  
  
Casey halts in front of him but he doesn't notice, curled up on himself with his head bowed between his knees."What's wrong?"  
  
When he doesn't answer Casey leans against the railing, frowning. Nothing else for her to do with him blocking the path. She doesn't want to go back up to the apartment yet anyway to be left alone with her thoughts, and she's all too familiar with what it's like to be a child, sad and alone, with no one to go to.  
  
"What are you supposed to be?" Casey tries again. "A vampire?"  
  
"Cole!" someone shouts from the floor below. "You know you're not supposed to be on the fire escape by yourself! You're gonna get in big trouble!"  
  
"You're Cole?" she offers a smile. "I'm Casey."  
  
Cole wipes his tears and raises his head. "I'm a wizard,” he sniffs.  
  
"What's wrong?" She gently urges.  
  
Cole's bottom lip wobbles and he drops his head back on his knees. "Sirius Black just died."  
  
Casey grimaces. "Oh...yeah, that was a tough one for me too."  
  
"Cole!" someone shrieks again.  
  
Cole groans and pushes himself up, gripping the metal bars with a pale face. "Also, I don't like heights."  
  
"How about I walk you down."  
  
"I'm not supposed to talk to strangers," Cole says. He grasps her hand anyway and she leads him down.  
  
Casey stands at the threshold of the patio door staring at the face of three other kids. They readily accept her in that uncomfortable, trusting way that all kids do, their eyes wide and curious.  
  
"This is Joseph," Cole says solemnly, pointing to a kid on the couch. "That's Morgan and his sister Bo." Bo turns around, Luna Lovegood glasses rising on her cheeks as she smiles. "And that kid, um, what's your name again?"  
  
"It's Hedwig," a boy with curly hair lisps.  
  
"No it isn't," Bo narrows her eyes.  
  
"Is too," Hedwig sticks out his tongue and Bo sticks out hers.  
  
"We have Bertie Bott's Beans, want some?" Bo snatches Hedwig's candy out of his lap and holds up the colorful box.  
  
"No thanks." Casey is getting ready to leave with a stern warning about going out on the fire escape alone when a teenage girl in a pink hoodie pops her head out of the kitchen.  
  
"Who the hell is she? Cole!" the girl whines, throwing her hands up. "Your mom told you about doing this, you little creep,” then turning to Casey mouthing, “I am so sorry,"  
  
Cole sniffles, plops down on one of the seats next to the television. "It's not my fault you were on the phone, Jade,” he says accusingly, glowering at her.  
  
"Ugh. You know what,” their babysitter says, going over to block the television, ignoring their shouting. “I think we've had enough Harry Potter and candy for one evening. Should put on a horror movie, teach you rugrats to leave the patio door open..."  
  
There's a collection of screams and cries and Casey decides that's her cue to leave when the front door opens and a familiar face catches her off guard.  
  
"Hey, you guys,” the woman greets, smiling, her eyes sweeping over the room and children making sure the place hasn't fallen apart. “Thanks for watching the kids, Jade.”  
  
Jade smiles sweetly, ignoring the glares at her back. "Aw, it's no problem at all, Mrs. Dunn. They were little angels."  
  
"Lying doesn't get you paid extra," Mr. Dunn laughs, stepping inside. His eyes sweep across the room too, widening in surprise when they land on her. "Hey, you,” brows furrowing in confusion, a small grin on his face. "You're John's niece, am I right?"  
  
"John?" Mrs. Dunn inquires, staring at her now as well while Casey does her best not to flee out to the fire escape.  
  
"Yeah," Mr. Dunn says. "Me and her uncle work for the same security company, we pass by in the same circles, I see him around sometimes."  
  
"Oh. That's...nice." Casey knows this. John has had a few short conversations with the man whenever they pass him in the building.  
  
Mr. Dunn shrugs. "Everyone seems to like your uncle. As for myself," he drops his voice, "I'm a bit of a loner asshole, but the job pays the bills."  
  
"David," his wife swats him on his arm and jerks her head towards the kids.  
  
Mr. Dunn laughs. "Right."  
  
"Can I offer you anything to drink, Casey?" Mrs. Dunn asks.  
  
"Actually-"  
  
"Come on in," Mr. Dunn gestures. "You and your uncle doing all right? Hon, one of these little rugrats have left the patio door open again, remind me to replace that cheap safety lock they've installed."  
  
"I'm old enough to go on the fire escape dad," Joseph sighs and slumps down in the couch, rolling his eyes.  
  
Mr. Dunn purses his lips. "Not when there's no adult around you aren't."  
  
Casey curses internally, forces her feet to move a few steps inside and tries not to wilt under his gaze. "We’re doing fine,” she answers.  
  
"Really?" Mr. Dunn moves past her, forcing her in closer as he shuts the patio door. Casey tries not to panic as he directs his attention to her, brow furrowing. "Because I, uh, heard a lot of banging up on the first floor a few nights ago." He leans against the door and crosses his arms, lowers his voice. “And being the concerned father and husband that I am, I ran up there to see what was going on."  
  
Casey holds his gaze, eyes burning, heart throbbing like a gaping wound splitting her in two. "So?"  
  
"Well, I've got a sort of sixth sense about these things. That, and when your uncle finally opened the door..." Mr. Dunn gestures to his shoulder. "Shoulder gushing blood that he blamed on a fall, I couldn't believe it. I could tell something was off."  
  
Casey doesn't say anything, face blank.  
  
"And then my nephew and the neighbor's kids come telling me the day after about you flying down the fire escape." When she remains silent Mr. Dunn sighs. "Look, it isn't any of my business, I don't know what's  going on, but I feel like I'd get the truth from you rather than your uncle- if something is going on."  
  
"Nothing is going on," Casey breathes out in a shaky whisper, bites her tongue.  
  
The Dunn family seems nice and normal enough but if too many people know about her situation things will get messier than it already is. And as anxious as she feels about talking to Dennis, of being in the same room with him now, she feels a lot safer by his side.  
  
Mr. Dunn looks at her closely for a moment longer, as if waiting for her to break down and confess any moment. That the tears she feels forming, blurring her vision, will give and then they won't be able to stop. Then he'll be forced to call her uncle here and try to sort everything out and-  
  
Mr. Dunn’s frown deepens. "Well, if something does happen - or will happen - and you wanna talk about it then me and the missus don't mind lending an ear. Alright?"  
  
Casey eagerly nods, itching to get out of here. “Okay."  
  
"Good." Mr. Dunn opens the patio door and Casey slips out.

/// 

"Use your weight against me."

The moment Dennis had stepped in the door Casey had saved them both from any awkwardness or tip toeing by asking for a real session.  
  
Dennis had gone over weight distribution and pressure points yesterday but that was for evading hits and manipulating others to her advantage- not how to get out of chokeholds. He'd started from actually refraining to touch her as much as possible just as he did the last time. In fact, she doesn't remember him initiating any touch with her (aside from in the gym room) since the night he'd picked her up from the theater. Now, she asks for it, argues that it's necessary.  
  
She's regretting it now.  
  
"How do you get out of this?" he demands, hands wrapped around her throat but not so she had difficulty breathing.  
  
"I don't know," she grunt, struggling against him pointlessly. Casey tries to throw him off by squirming and wriggling but Dennis grabs her wrist with one hand, pinning them between their chests. "Fuck!"  
  
"You're panicking, Casey. Just drop your weight."  
  
Casey doesn't think she's panicking so much as letting out some steam. She drops, with more ease than she'd figured and twists, losing her balance and falling to the floor. She kicks out and lands a few hits, causing Dennis to stumble back.  
  
"Try again," he persists.  
  
"I can't. I'm tired."  
  
Dennis rubs his head and sighs. "Your attacker won't care if you're tired."  
  
"Fine. But...let's try something else."  
  
Casey stands and smooths down her shirt where it's ridden up after she’d hit the wall. Dennis moves behind her, and with lighting speed gets a hold of her arms, gripping them against her chest. She tries to break the hold to no avail, the air being punched from her gut as he easily lifts her off her feet like she weighs nothing.  
  
Casey is finding it very hard to breathe. She tries to get him off by bucking against him, kicking in the air.  
  
"Don't struggle," he advises, "your attacker wants you to exhaust yourself as much as you can."  
  
Casey tries to turn her head to see him. Starts to panic because she can't. For a split second, she doesn't know who she's fighting against: John, her teachers, the kids at school, the Dennis she'd read from those journals. She doesn't realize that she's screaming now, pleading for him to let her go. Dennis quickly releases her, feet planting back on the ground.  
  
He takes a few steps back with his hands up and watches her, worry creasing his features. She's both grateful and pissed for his consideration. "Break?" He offers.  
  
Casey nods, too embarrassed and angry to say anything.  
  
Dennis trails behind her into the kitchen where they sit at the table, completely invested in their water bottles for several minutes.  
  
"Feel better if you had an actual weapon," Dennis says. "Your fists are good tools but should be a last resort if you can't get away as quick as possible."  
  
Casey smirks, dark and bitter. "Like what...a hunting knife? Balisong? Bowie? What's legal to stab someone else with?" She thinks about the kitchen knife, how good it felt to dish out the same abuse John had given her for years.  
  
Dennis' eyebrows raise. "I was thinking along the lines of pepper spray or a taser but we can look into that."  
  
Casey wonders how he would react if she tells him that she'd already stabbed her uncle, that she wouldn't mind doing it again if needed. Or just because she can. How her hands were shaking with a mixture of satisfaction and adrenaline at the brief moment of pain he'd more than deserved.  
  
She doesn't say that she would rather feel the weight of a gun in her hands. And in that moment, Casey realizes she's worse off for it. She wants that opportunity, the chance to destroy John. Fantasizes about getting revenge. Enjoying it.  
  
"I'm ready to go again," she says.  
  
Dennis shakes his head. "That's enough for today."  
  
She shrugs, drops her shaking hands from the table. "I'm good for it."  
  
Dennis looks highly doubtful.  
  
Casey tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly nervous, forcing out her next words. "He- when John choked me, he was on top of me and it didn't matter what I did." Casey's voice shakes and the tears she's been holding in all day finally break free, one by one, hot against her cheeks. "I couldn't get away, Dennis. Everything became blurry and quiet. I couldn't move or speak. Or think. I almost blacked out."  
  
"He's not going to get a second chance," Dennis says gruffly. "I promised you."  
  
Casey places a hand against her mouth as if it will stop the sob rising in her throat. "I know, I just...I still need to know how to get out of that."  
  
"Casey, you're not in any condition right now to try anything."  
  
"Please?” She whispers. “I've had a really shitty day and I just need something to take my mind off it."  
  
Dennis looks away, tongue pushing against his bottom lip, conflicted eyes darting across the table top. "Fine. But we're done if I think you can't handle it."  
  
Casey rushes up from her seat, wiping her damp cheeks with the heel of her hand. "Okay.”  
  
Dennis sighs and pushes himself out of the chair, heads back down the hall.  
  
"No! On the- on the bed,” Casey says firmly when he makes his way into the gym room.  
  
Dennis pauses, and she can tell he's ready to say a firm no. Casey doesn't let him get the chance.  
  
"He told me that next time he wouldn't stop. I just want to-” huffs, frustrated. “Please, Dennis."

                                 ///

Casey sits on the bed and spares a glance at Dennis who looks more of a nervous wreck more than her, his body taut and jerky as he shifts on his feet while waiting for her to get settled. But he doesn't say anything despite the stony features on his face, so she scoots back until she's in the center of the bed and lays on her back.

She can't disagree with what she knows he wants to say- that this its a monumentally stupid idea, especially with the way she'd reacted several minutes ago. Maybe she has a death wish. She doesn't feel like it. She just wants to take control, she wants to feel safe. Ironically, this is the only way she can think of in helping her learn how to do that, by walking into the lion’s den.

It takes Dennis a lot longer to move, setting his leg on the bed, his pupil, so large and bright pulling her in with every shallow breath she takes. And then he's fully on top of her, swinging his leg over so she's trapped beneath him. Casey's breath hitches, adrenaline flushing through her blood so souddenly she whimpers, squeezing her eyes shut.

It’s not fear of him - not really - but of being in this position again. Weak. Helpless. Voiceless.

“Casey…” Dennis sounds just as unsure, and she realizes that he's facing his fears right now too.

They stare there, just like that, for a long moment. Until all she can register is their breathing, her panic slowly ebbing away like a sickness once she tells herself that she's not in any danger. Dennis isn't her uncle or the man in the journals, he's not going to hurt her no matter what she does or says. She has all the power here.

When she opens her eyes again to find him staring down intensely at her she blushes so deeply, she knows he must see it even in the dim moonlight casting itself over the bed.

"Your uncle is heavier then me, you know,” he says in that quiet monotone way of his she doesn't like, drawing in on himself emotionally.  
  
"Teach me how to play dirty then."  
  
Dennis sighs slowly through his nose and gives her a disapproving look as if she'd said it jokingly and not with a stone serious face. "If you start to feel uncomfortable-"  
  
"Should I feel uncomfortable?" she quirks an eyebrow. It's a cheap jab but she couldn't resist. "Wait..." Casey reaches up for his glasses, folds them and places them on the dresser. "Wouldn't want to crush them."  
  
Dennis gives her tips on how to keep calm during high stress situations and shows her a few moves. How to knock someone off balance. Biting. Eye gouging, which makes her shudder at the image. There's nothing tantalizing about the close contact they find themselves. His tone becomes methodical and flat and his touch light and impersonal. She's focused and perhaps rougher than necessary, not that he says anything about it. It also ends faster than she would expect but that must be due to his own awkwardness.  
  
"You read them, my journals," he says. He sits on the edge of the bed with his back to her, turning his glasses in his hands.  
  
"You told me to." Casey is still in the center of the bed, legs crossed indian style, picking at a thread in the blanket. "I talked to Dr. Fletcher today. Although, an explanation from you about what I was getting into would have been nice."  
  
Dennis doesn't say anything.  
  
"I'm not an idiot," Casey fumes.  
  
"I don't think you are."  
  
Casey turns to fully face him but he won't turn around and offer the same courtesy. "But you think I'm, what, terrified and need to be ready for whatever comes at me- and that also include you, right?"  
  
She watches the muscles in his back tense under his gray shirt. "I'd rather-"  
  
"Cut off your own hands. Yeah, I got it. You tell me to read the journals and- and then run off. Did you expect me to be disgusted and keep my distance? For for me to leave before you got back?"  
  
“I should have told you long time ago," he says, shaking his head. "I shouldn't have talked to you in the first place."  
  
"Then why did you?"  
  
"I was lonely. And I liked you."  
  
"That's all?"  
  
"That's all," he says. Unaware of knowing that was all she'd wanted. "You helped me not feel like a monster."  
  
"I liked you too." And she knows now, even despite this, that she loves him. "Dennis...you're not a monster. You're not John."  
  
Casey crawls over to him, wraps her arms around his chest, presses up against his back. She drops a light kiss on his temple before she can lose her nerve. And then another on his cheek, the stubble burning her mouth in a way that makes her entire body shiver.  
  
"Casey," he says, voice tight and quavering a little, leans back against her. "What are you doing?"  
  
Dennis winds back up like a coil about to spring when her mouth caresses down his neck, but since he hasn't moved yet she kisses him over and over, growing increasingly bold as his breath shortens.

She leans closer and finally presses her lips against his. It's chaste, soft, and clumsily executed as their noses bump, his glasses becoming askew. A low, throaty noise comes from him, mouth parting slightly as she begins to pull back, his teeth nibbling on her bottom lip.

Casey gasps, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, not sounding the least bit apolegetic as he continues to stare at her mouth.

  
Her lips twitch, amused. “I think we both apologize too much.”

Casey kissee him again, her arms wrapping tighter around him as she pulls him back. The third kiss is bolder, her tongue darting out to swipe over his bottom lip and he presses back, his tongue sliding against hers and she can't stop the whimper from her mouth.

His hand grips around her wrist to keep her close, shifts around to get better access to her mouth. She doesn’t think about technique or the lack of it she has, only focusing on the giddy, intoxicating sensation of the slow slide of their lips and the warmth and power of his body.

  
Casey feels the full body shiver that runs through him as he breaks the kiss, out of breath. "You don't want this with me.”  
  
Casey grits her teeth. "Don't tell me what I don't want."  
  
"Casey, I'm not right for you. Not good enough."  
  
"I don't have the luxury for right and wrong," she argues, pushing past the tremor in her voice. "And I know that you're good for me,” she says softly. “We're good for each other."  
  
Casey moves backward, her hands still fisted into his shirt, urging him down so they're laying on their sides facing each other. He's lost his glasses somewhere in-between not that either seem to care. Casey smooths her fingers against his brows, between the lines creasing worriedly, then over his short, prickly hair and back down his chest.  
  
She has no idea how to do this and Dennis is staring at her like she's the best and most frightening damn thing to ever happen, like she's got life's secrets stowed away in her. But she doesn't. She's just as fucked up as he is, but they're trying, together.

She begins to tug his shirt up, hears the sharp inhale he takes in at her sudden, determined hands. And then she’s touching bare, hot skin and his mouth is on her again, incredibly soft and gentle as his hands fumbles through hair.

Casey slides her leg over his hip, nudging closer, his fingers gripping her to help along. Her head thumps against his shoulder, lips parting in a sigh as she rocks against him, her insides burning for him to touch her.

Dennis nips at her neck, whispers her name again and again like this is a mistake, his lips caressing against her skin. Casey pushes him back just enough, begging then. “Kiss me.”

Dennis obliges, manoveuring her on her back and taking what he wants this time as she all too happily lets him. Cupping her jaw, gently prying her mouth open, kissing her indulgently long and slow.

Her soft moan is barely audible over his heavy panting as his mouth trails below her jaw, down the column of her throat, her body squirming under his. This was going way beyond kissing now, her heart pounding, scared and excited. 

Before she can second guess herself, Casey hooks a finger in her pants and tugs them down, twisting and kicking them the all the way. She blushes as Dennis greedily takes in her exposed skin and before she loses her nerve, takes his hand in hers.  
  
Casey tucks her face under his chin, sucks kisses on his jaw, all the while guiding their hands down to her panties. Casey rocks her hips and lets out a whimper as the heel of his hand brushes over her clit, his fingers lightly pressing up along her inner thigh, at the cotton lining.

“Are you sure?” He asks, voice tight.

“Yes,” she urges, her hand tight on his wrist now. “Touch me.”

Casey sighs as she watches his fingers disappear under the floral pink material, stretching it out. His hand lightly brushes over the curls before he cups her, covering her entire sex. Casey rocks her hips, eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. Whines as he rubs his rough, calloused fingers between her lips, becoming increasingly wet at his teasing. She knows she must look half mad with her skin flushed and hair tangled, chest panting. Unable to take it anymore, because she needs more, she tugs his hand out of her underwear and shoves her panties down, the thin fabric ripping in her impatience.  
  
Frustratingly slow, he slides his hand back against her, eases a finger inside her. Casey moans, rolling her hips against the feel of it. Knuckles white in the grip she has hold of on his shirt, she closes her eyes, solely focusing on the slide of his finger in her. She pulls him closer still, hand sliding up the back of his neck, nuzzling her face in the crook of it. Dennis presses a small kiss to her temple, shivers beside her.

Casey cants her hips back and forth to meet his thrusts. He fucks her like she's going to break into a million pieces, or she'll regret it all in the morning.

"Dennis. Another," she whimpers.  
  
When Dennis adds a second finger she moans, head lolling against the pillow as his thumb lightly circles over her clit. And then he adds pressure, slides his fingers almost all the way out and pumps them back in faster and deeper, Casey bites her lip so hard she tastes blood. She grasps his arm like she's going to fall through the bed somehow, feels the skin tighten whenever he pushes his fingers back in with the flick of his wrist. She leans up to kiss him and and he moans into her mouth.  
  
Dennis presses against her shoulder until she's laying on her back again. He moves over her, looking as wrecked as she feels. And she feels pleasantly full as he adds a third finger. Her stomach tightens as a brief few seconds of fear over her scars but he doesn't seem to mind as he bites into the skin.  
  
"Up here." Casey tugs at his belt buckle, it takes a long, irritating moment where she has to maneuver around him but soon she's chucking the belt off somewhere into the darkness and pulling his pants down. But he stops her there, slyly, as he angles his hand sending a shot of pleasure through her stomach.  
  
Casey rolls her hips, a soft sound of surprise as she brushes against his clothed erection, pulling a startled groan from Dennis' lips. "So that's what it feels like,”  Casey muses, rolling her hips again. "I want you in me." The words come out so wanton and fast she doesn't even recognize her own voice.  
  
"Fuck,” Dennis grunts, pumping his fingers in faster, rougher, making her cry out when he finds that sensitive spot, her thighs trembling. And then he's pulling completely out of her, kissing her hard before she can protest. His arms slide around her waist and she's arching into him, trying to get that friction back before she loses its aching, bone deep pleasure.  
  
"You're driving me crazy," he growls against her mouth, accent thick, "with the fucking noises you're making." Dennis rocks into her like he can't help himself, hips stuttering, the bed groaning under the strain.  
  
"Then do something about it,” she manages to say, kissing him lazy and sloppy as her breath quickens when he hitches her leg up and pushes his fingers back in just right.  
  
He's towering over her right and yet she realizes she's holding the power in this moment, feels secure as he traps her under him. And it all comes rushing at her, The scent of sex and sweat, his warmth making, the way his skin slides against hers whenever he thrusts back in. Casey moans louder, bucks up as the pad of his finger hits that bundle of nerves relentlessly, this time without the intent of teasing, just a steady wave of intense pleasure. He presses a hand to her stomach to hold her still, her muscles tightening under the barrage of senses.

He bends down, mouth hovering over hers until she closes the space, reaching for quick, little kisses as he works her just right, her tongue darting to his upper lip. Just the right amount of pain as he nibbles on her bottom lip. The weight of his own arousal, still trapped in his damp boxers, dragging against her hip every once in a while when he forgets himself, the cotton material so thin she could probably make out every detail of it in her mind.

  
Casey turns her face into his neck, sobs his name. Everything becoming too intense too fast, mind gone, senses heightened, time slowed. His uneven breaths, the short, soft moans he huffs against her ear, his lips tickling the skin and sending electricity down her neck. And then it at all stops, becomes silent for just a fraction as tenses, convulsing around his fingers, his hand still on keeping her down  
  
"You okay?" Dennis asks, low and rough as he eases his fingers out of her.  
  
Casey answers by kissing his shoulder. Her hand travel down to his erection, not getting very far when he grabs her wrist.  
  
He shakes his head. "This was just for you."  
  
Dennis smooths her hair away from her face, places a quick kiss at the corner of her mouth and begins to move away.  
  
"So you're not going to?" Casey bites her lip. "If you won't let me then I want to see you."  
  
Dennis drops his head against her shoulder as if he doesn't deserve to do so, shoving his hand in his boxers. Casey smooths her hand over his head, tiredly murmurs encouragement as his breath ghosts across her shoulder, turns into grunts of pleasure while he jerks himself off.

Casey sighs, content in the way he feels over her, his fingers sliding over her upper thigh, his rhythm becoming unsteady as he moans and curses, until her skin is warm and wet. Dennis wraps around her, fighting off the last of his shivers, Casey hugging him tightly, both too exhausted to move. They fall asleep.


	7. The lesson

Going back to school after everything that’s happened feels odd, the morning stillness off kilter and foggy. She gets dressed in her usual layers of plain, muted colors, throwing on her red plaid jacket over it, movements sluggish, half asleep. She writes a note explaining her absences and forges her uncle's signature with ease, stuffs it in her pocket.  
  
She's in the bathroom doing some finishing touches when Dennis appears at the open door, wordlessly leaning against the frame. She glances up at him through the mirror but he looks away as she caps the tube of lipgloss and grabs her brush.  
  
"Hi," she says.  
  
"Hey."  
  
He hadn't been there when she’d woken up this morning, Casey wasn't sure he even went to sleep at all. It's not that she'd expected - or even wanted - any of those romance movie cliché's of sunshine and cuddles, but he's barely said a word or looked at her all morning. She doesn't feel much of anything right now except incredibly self aware of her body and frustratingly timid, pondering about what happens next and how to get around any queasy, gooey eyed protocol they're supposed to follow.  
  
"So..." she prods, staring at his reflection in the mirror once more.  
  
"Hair," is all he says, an edge of panic catching in his throat as he points to the brush on the counter.  
  
"Right. Okay," she says, her shoulders drooping disappointingly. She removes the few strands stuck in the brush's thistles and dumps them in the bin.  
  
Dennis is just as quiet and reserved as he drives her to school, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel, fidgeting with the radio. Casey herself is becoming a nervous wreck just by proximity, wringing her hands around the strap of her tote bag as the silence stretches for miles.    
  
It appears this conversation can only begin with his doubts and her pleading, their fears on display, gushing like an open wound left to rot. She knows he worries that he'll end up hurting her one day, that all of this would eventually come to a pain filled somber end, and she doesn't know how to make any of this better. A minute or two more goes by until it becomes completely unbearable. She gathers the courage to look at him as they stop at a red light.  
  
"Is there something wrong?" She asks.  
  
Dennis' gaze shifts to her and back at the light. "Yeah," he says simply, the knot between his brows deepening.  
  
Alarm bells are ringing in her head now telling her to drop it, that avoidance is the safest route. "What is it?" She says, adopting a cheerful voice to the best of her ability.  
  
"It's not exactly the best time to talk about this, Casey," he tiredly responds.  
  
"Tell me anyway,” she demands.  
  
The light turns green and the car pulls forward again, his expression becoming more troublesome the longer she stares at it. "Casey..." it's all in the way he says her name that she knows, defeated and reluctant.  
  
Slowly, her face falls and she nods resignedly. "It's about last night, isn't it?"  
  
She gets her answer when he doesn't respond. Of course it is, Casey feels her face grow hot with anger. She smooths her shirt down, twisting her fingers around a loose string in the hem.  
  
So. Mistake it is, then.  
  
An uneasy awkwardness settles inside the car, stifling it. When they make it to her school it only becomes more pointed. Dennis kills the engine and leans back, staring blankly in front of him, face devoid of emotion.  
  
"We shouldn't do this. Not right now," he gently says.  
  
Blinking furiously and swallowing down the her tears, Casey grips the door handle, tight. "I just-" she pauses, hating the vulnerability she hears. She's always breaking around him, prodding at her weak spot, firing her up some way. "That's what you said last time. About us being friends."  
  
"That was different."  
  
"Different how?" She glares.  
  
"You know how," he grounds out just as aggravated.  
  
"If you're going to fight your way through this at least pick a side," Casey runs a hand through her hair with a huff. "I like you," she says with fervor, "and you like me. Isn't that good enough without having to sift through our collective bullshit?"  
  
"No," he sighs, closing his eyes. "it can't. It's never so simple."  
  
"But what you're doing is? Or I'm just a test run for your little experiment," she deflects emotionlessly.  
  
"Don't do that," he snaps.  
  
She can't do this. She needs space. Time. Time to think. To not break down in front of him. Or put up her walls and say something truly horrible that she'll end up regretting more than her last comment. She only gets so far as opening the door when he grasps her arm, gently pulling her back in.  
  
"Is this is all too much, too fast for you?" She pushes, tired and sad. "Things can't ever be easy between us....something is always between us and out of our control. At least stop blaming yourself for it."  
  
"Casey, you have no idea how often I think about..." Dennis stops the rush of words from finishing, paling. He clenches and unclenches his hands around the steering wheel and Casey gets a fraction of an idea of the kind of thoughts he's having. A faint, scared heartbeat comes and goes and they both fall silent again.  
  
"You wouldn't," she quietly says, leans over the seat and presses a long, lingering kiss against his cheek.  
  
He doesn't react other than loosening his white knuckled hold on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry. We shouldn't do this," he repeats lowly. "Not now."  
  
Casey wordlessly picks up her bag and opens the door wider.  
  
"I'll pick you up later."  
  
She doesn't turn back to look at him, choosing to stare blankly at her old, worn boots. "You don't have to pick me up."  
  
"Your uncle might be waiting for you or call to see if you're back."  
  
She wants to say that she doesn't need someone to protect her, a damn babysitter he wants to be, that she can very well handle herself. Instead, she nods wordlessly, pushing the school’s door open and making a quick escape.  
  
The first couple of classes breeze by with a sort of blurry detachment, the only thing she can really recall are the bright fluorescent lights, the sound of chatter, and endless blackboards. There's nothing she can do in the middle of the school week besides take notes on the book pages she needs to read and review. Her tote bag is filled with assignments and homework she's missed, given by her teachers with little to no problems seeing as how they too don't want to look at her for another year.  
  
She's furious and worried and hurt, among a swirl of other emotions all settling into shame and self blame. Did she push him too far last night when he was clearly trying to push her away? Was it his OCD? Or did he simply change his mind about her considering...well, everything about her from her own issues to her age. A migraine threatens to split her in half if she doesn't stop worrying over all of the reasons things could've went south.  
  
She's at her locker switching out her textbooks and journals for the second half of the day when someone comes up beside her. Thinking they're trying to get to the locker below hers Casey hurriedly stuffs the books in her bag and shuts the locker, the apologetic smile freezes on her face when she turns to see who’s waiting.  
  
Hank's daughter- Allison - is staring at her with wide eyes. "Casey! What the hell, girl, your uncle's been looking for you! He called my dad and mom and told us to keep an eye out." Allison doesn't look so worried herself, rather needing juicy information to gossip about between lulls of conversation. Casey hadn't even known Allison went to her school and she's blanking on whether her uncle's mentioned it to her.  
  
"I'm fine." Casey mumbles in response, offering a friendly enough smile. Normally, that would be the end of the conversation after one of her disappearing acts, but as she attempts to leave Allison sidesteps her, blocking the way.  
  
"Who was that man who dropped you off this morning?" Allison says in a low, excited voice.  
  
Casey sputters, caught off guard. The hallway is getting emptier as students and teachers all rush to their respective classrooms.  
  
"Just someone I hitched a ride from."  
  
Allison frowns, making an exaggerated, unconvinced face. "You got into the car with someone you don't know?" her brows rise and her mouth hangs open for dramatic effect.  
  
"I better get to class," Casey says quickly with no intentions to see her later, ending the conversation and scurrying off.  
  
Half an hour later while scribbling notes in English class Casey's phone buzzes with the text of an unknown number. She pulls it out underneath her desk and opens the message.  
  
**Get home. Today. I'm calling your uncle.**  
  
Casey loses the grip on her phone and it drops on her boot, clattering to the floor. "Shit," she winces, frantic. She bends down to pick it up, glancing up to Mr. Tanner who hasn't looked her way.  
  
She reads the message twice over again, her throat constricting. She's feeling hot under the bright lights, closed in between the desks of her classmates, the sounds of pencils scratching and chairs scraping assaulting her senses.  
  
**‘Who is this?’ C.C.**  
  
She jiggles her leg anxiously, impatient as she waits for her screen to light up again. She tries to focus back on the notes displaying on the overhead but now her mind is clouded and blank. The number doesn't text back. Whoever it is she's hoping it's a prank but she can't afford to think like that.  
  
Mr. Tanner looks up from behind his desk at her, frowning. "Is there a problem, Ms. Cooke?"  
  
"No, sir," she mutters, ducking her head back down.  
  
She calls the number back in-between classes and it goes to voicemail, the voice of a man picking up. When she realizes it's Hank her frustration boils over into searing rage.  
  
Casey keeps an eye out in the hallway for Allison but it isn't until the bell rings for lunch that she finds her. Allison is sitting at the top of the cafeteria level chatting with a group of girls at one of the semi-popular tables. Ignoring the stairs as she stalks up the ramp, Casey hurries her way over, nails digging into her palm.  
  
When she stops at the table Allison's expression is less than friendly compared to this morning. She props a fist under her chin.  
  
"What the hell did you do?" She demands. "Did you snitch to your dad about me?"  
  
"Wow. Okay," she reels back with wide, blue eyes. “All I did was send the picture I took of you to my mom."  
  
"Why?" Casey snarls.

"Because she sent it to your uncle who texted me with an attitude like he's my dad, asking a million questions. My life isn't any of your family's business."

"What life?" Casey shoots back, vicious, “your trashy ass family are the ones being nosy.”

Allison's face reddens and she looks around the table to her friends for support, their mouths gaping open in disbelief, looking between the two. “I wasn't the one running away from home again, Space Case,” Allison says.  
  
"Yeah," a curly redhead with round glasses pipes in. "Allison was just worried about you."  
  
"I’m not talking to you," Casey snaps shortly at the red head before turning back to Allison. "The next time you want to snap pictures I suggest you stick to selfies, Allison."  
  
Allison scrunches up her face as if smelling something horrible. "Are you threatening me? You seriously need to chill, did I interrupt you and your sugar daddy's honeymoon or something?"  
  
And just like that, Allison's little comment begins to spread across the cafeteria table. Casey's jaw clenches except she's not embarrassed or upset- she's pissed.  
  
"Oh yeah," Allison speaks over the hum of the crowd, her voice twisting cruelly. “Her and some older guy were practically all over each other. Want to share the details on that, Casey?"  
  
Hearing enough, Casey reaches over the table and shoves Allison's food tray - chili, cornbread, and coke - straight into her lap.  
  
A collective gasp echoes across the table as their heads turn to Allison who slowly looks down at her shiny blue top and white skirt, face blooming a splotchy red. She opens her mouth and releases a bloodcurdling scream that silences the whole cafeteria.  
  
Casey makes a hasty escape outside before any of the teachers see her. She hurries towards the football field and across the track, heading for the bleachers, her heart racing. Wiping this morning's condensation off the bench, she plops down and turns her phone in her hand.  
  
She has no one to call to just...talk to. She doubts Dr. Fletcher wants to listen to her problems with some bratty teenage girl as kind as the woman is. Caving in, she calls Dennis, not wanting things to fester into something ugly by the time she sees him again anyway.  
  
When he picks up Casey blurts, "you're not busy are you?" _Smooth_.  
  
"No,” he answers after a pause. “Is everything all right?"  
  
There's none of the anger or doubt from earlier in his voice, just concern. A few hours away and she's already missing the sound of his voice. She tries to ignore the hurt from their argument bubbling up from this morning and presses on.  
  
"Yeah. Well- not exactly.” She looks back in the direction of the cafeteria. “I think my uncle knows that I'm back at school."  
  
"And I'll deal with it," he says reassuringly, calm. "Just as I promised."  
  
Casey squeezes her eyes shut with trepidation. "Also,” she drawls, sighing loudly, “I may have gotten into trouble on my first day back."  
  
Another pause. "What did you do?"  
  
"Pushed some chili on a girl. But she deserved it."  
  
"...was it hot?"  
  
"Um..." Casey's eyes roll upward in contemplation. "I don't think so, lunch started about fifteen minutes before,” she says, biting her lip. “Why?"  
  
Dennis chuckles lowly, something hangs repeatedly in the background, the faint sound of a drill. "Then you shouldn't get into too much trouble, I don't think the cops are called food spills. I didn't know you were a troublemaker to begin with."  
  
"I'll keep you in the dark on that." Casey feels her mouth quirk up bitterly, she was more of a magnet for trouble, a long list of unlucky circumstances. "I just want all of this to be done with.” She slides down the bench, blinking up at the cloudy, dull blue sky. “To get so far away from this place that I'll never have to look at another familiar face again."  
  
"Me included?"  
  
Casey pulls a face at the unpleasant thought. "What? No. You can come with me if you pack my luggage,” she teases.  
  
Dennis chuckles again. She likes making him laugh, the fact that she still has a sense of humor tells her she's not dead inside.  
  
"I'll see you in a little bit, Casey."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Get to class."  
  
"Get to work," she shoots back before hanging up and dropping her phone in her lap. She feels a lot better now, but somehow just a little lonelier as she treks back inside the building

///

All eyes are on her when she walks into art class after lunch. Even with her head down she can feel them pushing down on her back. She chunks her tote bag into the seat beside her, as if someone would bother to be seen sitting next to her.  
  
"Psst," the class clown - Ron - hisses at her. "Pst! Hey, girl!" He whispers loudly, half hanging out of his seat to try and get her attention. She ignores him even as he gets a few laughs out of the class. Being the center of Ron's attention is a mixed bag that she doesn't want to be thrown into. "Case! Ay, yo, Space Case!"  
  
Mrs. Murphy does nothing to stop him although she's shooting nasty glances both their way.  
  
Ron smacks his lips. "Casey! I know you hear me."  
  
Casey grits her teeth, furiously erasing some ugly line drawing in the warm-up exercise. Someone tells him to leave her alone but he ignores this, going down the rows, getting closer until he's two seats away.  
  
"So, uh, I hear you're into older guys. Is that why you're so uptight, girl?"  
  
Casey forgets to breathe, her body seizing up.  
  
"Ew. What about older guys?" A girl perks up, turning to face them. "Older guys, like, celebrities because that's different..."  
  
"Nah," another guy cuts in, "he wasn't talking about celebrities. Is it because of what Allison said? That hot girl we have in social studies?"  
  
"Yeah!" Ron says, snapping his fingers. "Oh shit, I skipped social today, you didn't hear me cuss, Ms. Art- but, yeah, I heard you dumped chili on some girl because she saw you making out with some older-"  
  
Casey doesn't want to hear the rest, pushing up out of her seat and rushing out of the classroom. The whispers from her classmates, her teacher yelling for everyone to be quiet and sit down, calling her back in the classroom, all stowed safely away from her behind a door where it can't reach her.  
  
Her step falters down the hall, she can’t hold it in any longer and bursts into tears. Ignoring a few curious glances, Casey makes a beeline for the bathroom with the hopes that it's empty, luck is finally on her side. She shuts herself into the farthest stall and cries.  
  
Her uncle is going to kill her if he finds out. If one of the teachers believe the rumor that technically isn't false to begin with, they're going to call him if Hank hasn't already. The fact that he still holds such power over her when she was beginning to taste freedom engulfs her, chokes her. That he can waltz right in the building and pull her out with no questions asked and she couldn't do a thing about it. The thought that he might be in the front office right now without her knowing - without Dennis knowing - forces out every sob and scream crushing down on her.  
  
She covers her mouth when the bathroom door squeals open not too long after, a timid voice calling her name. A girl from her art class. She doesn't answer. Casey spends the remainder of the school day locked in that tiny stall.  
  
While waiting for Dennis to get off of work, Casey does some extra assignments in study hall. She was in the clear for now, no one having called her name over the speaker to relay her uncle was here to pick her up.

Checking the clock to see that an hour has passed, she gathers up her things and makes an exit at the front entrance. She shoots a message to Dennis and leans against one of the pillars, watching as the handful of stragglers who’d stayed behind greet their parents or siblings in the driveway.

Casey gasps as she's shoulder-checked by a girl passing by, glaring at the offender only to realize it's Allison. She's wearing her gym clothes, toting a paper bag filled with her chili stained outfit. Casey smirks to herself. She really hopes that chili doesn't wash out.  
  
Instead of retaliating or saying something nasty, she opts to wander back to the entrance or inside when a black pick-up truck pulls up, the driver side door opening and shutting.  
  
As Allison hops in the back Hank comes around the front of the truck. Shit

"Casey, c'mon. Get inside."  
  
"I have a ride," she calls out over her shoulder, squinting through the tinted window of the passenger door anxiously, hoping her uncle isn't waiting for her.  
  
"Not anymore you don't," Hank says with conviction. "I'm taking you home."  
  
Standing her ground, Casey looks around hoping that Dennis will pull up any second. She contemplates going back inside, but if she runs into a teacher or principal they will definitely call her uncle.  
  
"Goddammit, Casey!" Hank says angrily, making her jump, flashes of John coming at her in her mind's eye. "I am not messing around, get in the truck right now."  
  
When she still doesn't move, frozen to the spot, Hank rushes forward and grabs her shoulder.  
  
"No! Let go." Casey snatches her arm out of his grip forcefully, wincing in pain at how tight he was gripping her.  
  
Hank looks at her in shock that she has the audacity to pull away from him. "You're lucky your uncle isn't here," he spits harshly. "He's beyond pissed with you, I had to calm him down over the phone to keep from coming up here and whooping your ass within an inch of your life."  
  
"You can't tell me what to do," she says hotly. "And I'm not going anywhere with you."  
  
"Get your ass in that truck." Hank growls, grabbing her jacket collar and dragging her.  
  
The passenger door swings open and her heart stutters. "Hank," his wife gasps, a manicured hand going up to her mouth.  
  
"I don't wanna hear it right now," Hank barks harshly much to his wife's temper, loudly, slamming the door shut again. He places a hand on the small of Casey's back and shoves. "Up. I don't have all day."  
  
"I'm not going!" Casey shouts, twisting and turning.  
  
His grip tightens and a hand slides down to her waist, grunting as he tries to lift her up and inside the truck. She's hyperventilating now, her knees caving in on her from pure terror of facing her uncle again. He'd choked her last time, threw her around like a rag doll where all she could was pound uselessly against his chest. She'd stabbed him. Forgive and forget was not in the cards this time, they'd both reached their boiling point, aware that she wasn't going to allow his abuse anymore. Aware that the time for her to pack up and leave him has come. He wasn't going to let her be happy, not when he still had so much hate and anger in him.  
  
She locks eyes with Allison who momentarily looks guiltily at her before looking down at her phone again, squirming uncomfortably in her seat. Casey contemplates elbowing him in the gut but immediately decides not to, unsure if Hank would hurt her or not.  
  
She's got one foot on the step when Hank's wife yelps in surprise and the weight pressed against her back disappears. Casey gasps as she falls back and reaches out to cling to the door beside her. Taking a few steps back, she whirls around to see Dennis slamming Hank's head against the window twice.  
  
Hank doubles over the backseat, spit dripping down his chin and groaning, more from the shock of the blow than any serious injury.  
  
Dennis blindly reaches for her and she slides her hand into his, heading to his car which he'd left running in front of the truck.  
  
"Hey!" Hank yells, making her look back to see him stumbling his way forward.  
  
"Get in the car." Dennis' voice is hard and she doesn't question him, her breathing erratic and loud as she slides inside and checks to make sure the door is locked. She watches with trepidation as Dennis rounds the front to the drivers side, Hank coming up on the bumper.  
  
Hank takes a swing and Casey quickly looks away, wide eyes brimmed with tears, she brings her legs up to her chest and wraps her arms around her knees. A loud, heavy thump rocks the car. Hank's wife and daughter are shouting something unintelligible. A student pokes their head out the entrance doors and disappears back inside.  
  
A knock on the driver's window draws her attention. Dennis looks unharmed other than his shirt, Hank is cupping his nose, blood oozing down his chin. She hurriedly unlocks the door.  
  
She's pushed back against the seat as Dennis peels off, tires squealing.  
  
"He's going to call the police," she whispers, frightened. She can't have Dennis go to jail because of her problems.  
  
"No he's not," Dennis tells her, calm. "He's going to call your uncle though."  
  
"I should have just made that report when you told me to."  
  
"Casey?" Dennis waits for her to look at him.  
  
"What?"  
  
“You know you mean the world to me, right?"  
  
Her cheeks heat up at the comment, and it's the best she's felt all day. Rolling her eyes, she fights and fails horribly at keeping a wide smile at bay. "Yeah, you too."

///

"Hello?" John's voice comes muffled through the phone.  
  
"John, this is Dennis."  
  
There's no reply for a long time, just the rumble of the car engine and traffic a couple of feet away.  
  
"Neighbor, Dennis? Yeah, yeah...the very same one that's been hanging around my niece?" he goads. "Managing to somehow sneak her way past me every day since she's been gone.."  
  
Dennis ignores this. "We need to talk."  
  
"We do," he concedes. "We actually have a lot to talk about." John pauses. "I was thinking about calling the cops. The, uh, running away is nothing new- rebellious girl that she is. But," he drawls, "you...you're new and I don't know what your role is in this yet. So I figured I'd give you a chance to explain as to why you didn't contact me. Why my teenage niece was at yours for." John chuckles humorlessly.  
  
Dennis says nothing, staring unblinkingly out the car window while he listens to him drone on.  
  
"All right, Dennis," John huffs tiredly when he doesn't take the bait. "I'm at work, you can meet me there." John hangs up the phone right after he gives Dennis the address.  
  
It's about six when Dennis pulls up in the lot to the bar John works at. When he gets to the entrance he pulls the yellow cloth from his pocket to open the door, ignoring several stares.  
  
Country music is playing obnoxiously loud over the speakers, a nasally twang crooning over an entire band. The place stenches of grease and an underlying body odor.  
  
Spotting John sitting at one of the stools by the bar he heads over, ready to get this done with. John does a double take when he spots Dennis, his expression flitting from surprised to a carefully blank face.  
  
"Dennis," John greets, holding up his beer. "You want one?"  
  
"I don't drink," Dennis says shortly.  
  
John huffs in surprise. "A man that doesn't drink. Boy, I tell ya...I don't envy you. Why don't you pull up a seat?"  
  
In no mood for pleasantries, Dennis steps closet up to the bar. "I'll pass."  
  
"Casey's been acting out, spending all of her time on that fire escape. More than usual. Acting out more. Now I think I'm starting to see the full picture."  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Yeah. What's been going on?" John smiles tightly, cocking his head and trying to understand. "What's your motive here huh? Because I sent someone to pick her up from school earlier and she never came. And my buddy Hank calls," John gestures to his face, "he thought his nose was broken due to a, uh, misunderstanding, I guess- thank goodness it wasn't, am I right?"  
  
Dennis shrugs, eyes never leaving John as a smirk flits across his face momentarily. "It could've been worse."  
  
John heaves a great sigh, the stool groans under his large berth. He bares his teeth at Dennis in a smile that's more of a sneer. "Listen...if she isn't home by tonight," he shrugs, "whether she wants to or not. I'm gonna have to get the police involved."  
  
Dennis slips his phone out of his pocket and sets it down between them, watches as John lowers his gaze to the table. He makes sure he sees each photo of Casey's injuries the night he'd picked her up as he swipes through them. Lets the realization sink in, a sobering anchor tied around his thick ankle. John's face falls and carefully closes off, becoming blank and clammy.

At the last photo, Dennis slides his phone back into his pocket, clasps his hands back on the bar counter and turns to John. “And while you're doing that," he finally says, as calm and cool as the man initially was, "you can tell them about how you beat her."

John slowly looks back up at Dennis, narrows his eyes and frowns, a picture of innocent bewilderment. “What the hell are you talking about?” he feigns dumb, eyes hard and sharp. "I didn't- how dare you accuse me of doing that to somebody I lo-"  
  
“Don't bullshit me," Dennis harshly cuts in not wanting to hear him say those words. He leans forward, just inches away from John whose now red faced and breathing heavily. "You beat her. Like one of these drunk bastards in the bar."  
  
John’s nostrils flare up and all pretense drops and for a split second he looks murderous. It pleases Dennis. The feeling is mutual. "Now, you should now as well as I do," John sneers, "that any little girl will lie for a bit of attention. Now, those bruises could have come from anywhere," he spits the last word out, brows rising empathically, for understanding.  
  
Dennis tastes blood. The sharp tinge of pain on the inside of his cheek a relief to the surge of rage that vibrates through him. He'd known the rejection to his claims was going to happen, but it doesn't stop the urge to reach over the short distance to show John how he's really feeling. He swallows the coppery liquid down his clenched, burning throat. Swiping his tongue along his bottom lip, he leans back again. "I'm not so easily fooled, John."  
  
John matches his movements, reclining back against the bar's countertop. He smiles with practiced ease, open friendliness and camaraderie. "C'mon," he drawls the word out with a disbelieving laugh. "This is silly. Look, I give that girl everything-  and I mean everything- she has ever needed. Wanted? No. But needed? You can be damn well sure. Can I be a little..." he swaddles his head around, humming contemplatively, "strict. Yeah, you bet. Losing my brother and sister-in-law -Casey's parents - you could say that I'm a bit overprotective. No offense to you, but she shouldn't be in some man's home by herself, I mean, look at her choices.”

“I raise my voice a little if she doesn't phone in or stays out too long past her curfew doing God knows what with who. I've popped her on the ass a handful of times with my belt when she was younger- but abused? Like that? Nowhere near. No, absolutely not." John blinks furiously to rid himself of the imaginary tears blurring his eyesight and meets Dennis burning gaze. "Whoever did that to my Casey Bear, I could bet you it was some kid from school went too far. Probably a boyfriend I don't know about or some girl scat, she gets into fights all the time though nothing this...severe. But she'll blame on me because I am the only one who gives a damn about her wellbeing, something she can give two shits about."

Sighing, Dennis scratches his brow, wanting to laugh at his ridiculous, planned speech, pondering on how many people he's used it on. He pokes his tongue on the inside of his bloody, bitten cheek, thankful for the pain there. Anything to distract him from the rage submerging him, drowning him in red. "That was pretty convincing, John. Really, you hit all the notes."  
  
John still gives nothing away, shaking his head irritably at Dennis' words and taking a pull from his beer.  
  
"But see, I know people like you. Can practically see you from a mile away. Big guy like you and at your age..." Dennis sizes him up with a shrug, "working in a shitty place like this making no money, at least, not to take one of these girls home until you can save up enough."  
  
John sets the mug down, hard, and scoffs. He stares at Dennis from the corner of his eye, knuckles turning white.  
  
"And all the complimentary drinks over the years has done nothing for your health, the muscle has gone and you've gotten more of a beer gut. But it's enough to make you still feel like a man and sling some poor, defenseless girl around."  
  
Licking his lips, John leans forward, brow furrowing angrily. "You oughta think real carefully about who you're speaking to like that," he growls.  
  
"And that tone of voice there,” Dennis continues, “works more on teenagers than it does here  a bar full of drunken assholes like yourself. Gotta put that loss of authority and anger somewhere, John, might as well pick a little girl."  
  
The thing about abusers like his mother or Casey's uncle is that they're never eager to get into a real fight with someone their own age. Especially not in public, at their place of work because confidence and past experience had fooled him into thinking he had the upper hand. Afraid of losing something important such as a spouse or reputation or money if the abuse came out. They were pathetic cowards, soft in their own arrogance, holding power over someone younger and weaker. John may have size on him but he wasn't dealing with some jumped up friend of hers who'd never taken a hit.  
  
John launches up from the stool, stumbling on his way up and gathering several curious looks. “You sick sunuvabitch..." he growls under his breath. "That is my niece! And if she isn't at my door tonight we'll see who the bigger man is."  
  
"Let's not pretend you care any longer with this little power play. She's not going. It's done."  
  
John laugh disbelievingly. "You have a lot of balls coming in here telling me what you," he steps closer and prods Dennis in the chest, "think is best for the niece that I - and I, alone - have put food on the table for."  
  
Dennis doesn't rise to the bait with the contact though he's sorely tempted. "I don't think, I know."  
  
Breathing heavily, John wags his finger. "Oh, see...I knew there was something off about you the minute you stepped in the door. What are you trying to tell me, huh?" John smooths his hand over his facial hair, peering down as he sizes Dennis up. "Why don't you really tell me what this is really about, huh? You making good use of my niece while she's at your place?"  
  
He knows the accusation is on the tip of his tongue. That he's screwing his niece, has got her brainwashed and compliant, at war with her concerned, caring uncle. He knows all of John's tricks, has lived through them, remembers them with startling clarity. The accusation he fires at him still stings, infuriating him further. His own demons thrusted into the spotlight for John to see.  
  
It's why he hadn't wanted Casey present although he realizes her intentions when she'd said she wished to confront her uncle. Admires them, even. But falling back into familiar patterns and doubts was as easy as breathing, so much so that you won't even realize until too late. Even with one or two people in your corner. And he may not be Dr. Fletcher but he's picked up on a some things. Knows how to make the pieces on the board fall in his favor for now.  
  
"I've made it my business," Dennis says. "Stay away from her. Casey will be going back to school and I don’t care if she’ll pass by your door every morning and every evening- you will not lay so much as a finger on her. You don't think about dropping by at her school. You don't think about following her. You don't think about waiting at my apartment door for her- or anyone you know. If you say or do anything that’s perceived as even vaguely threatening-”  
  
Having heard enough, John slams his glass to the floor, splashing beer everywhere. A few employees cry out in shock at their normally friendly co-worker. “You’ll do what?” he barks.  
  
“Then my hands will be around your neck,” Dennis threatens.  
  
"Is there a problem here, John?" One of the bouncers ask, glancing between them calculatingly.  
  
"No problem, Doug," John says with a sinister smile. "We'll finish this conversation later, neighbor."  
  
Dennis exits out of the bar shortly after, running on fumes at this point. He shouldn't have lost his temper like that. He was no better than John if he couldn't keep himself calm.  
  
Cranking the engine, he drives off with the heavy knowledge that this was far from over.

///

Five text messages and two missed calls later, Casey paces by the front door, hoping that if she does get a call it isn't from the hospital. When she hears the locks turning all the tension drains from her, ready to pounce on him for information.  
  
He goes as far as sticking his head inside.  
  
"Let's get outta here," he says.  
  
"What?" Casey frowns, off guard. "Where are we going?"  
  
"Out."  
  
Casey narrows her eyes at the cryptic answer. "To do what?"  
  
Dennis gives her a look that says _no more questions._  
  
Casey makes a noise of exasperation, wanting to know what had happened but glad to see he's okay. Grabbing her bag, she ducks out of the apartment and down the hall with him right behind her.  
  
Her curiosity is only strengthened as he grabs her hand and cuts across the parking lot to amble down the sidewalk. Experimentally, she slides her hand down his and interlocks their fingers, squeezing them when he doesn't react. They can both be odd about physical contact on occasion,but they both seem to need it right now.  
  
"We're go to the park," Dennis says as if suddenly coming up with the idea.  
  
"What's at the park?"  
  
'Nothing's at the park."  
  
"Then why are we going to the park?" Casey's frown deepens.  
  
"Fresh air. We both need it. Before someone's hot head explodes."  
  
"Hey, I didn't get into a fight today. I almost did with the whole chili mess and now I feel like a bad influence," she teases.  
  
Dennis halts in the middle of the sidewalk, stopping them both in the process. "No more fighting for either of us for the rest of the week," he sighs.  
  
Casey laughs. "Agreed."  
  
They wander into the east side of Fairmount Park, a large and popular attraction divided into two sides by the Schulykill River. Lush gardens and fields, rolling hills and muddy, rocky terrain that stretches on for acres. Victorian era trolleys that guide park-goers around winding trails to get a view of ancient, towering mansions and boathouses on glistening lakes. Monuments and museums and playgrounds, picnics and shops and booths. The sun is already setting by the time they arrive, bathing the scenery in a warm, golden-orange light.  
  
Her mood perks up a little with a hot chocolate and funnel cake that Dennis does not take kindly or calmly much to her annoyance. Especially when the white sugary powder smears on the wrist of her jacket and she glares as he stares at her tellingly.  
  
He buys her one of those tourist sweatshirts with Fairmount Park in green cursive font with tiny, printed trees. They rest for a while on one of the many benches around the park, feeding the last bit of her funnel cake to the birds while they playfully bicker.  
  
"Stay. Very. Still," Casey mouths to Dennis when she sees a squirrel skitter around the tree, its head perking up curiously.  
  
Dennis waves his arm and the squirrel runs back around the trunk. Casey shoves his shoulder.  
  
Casey buys a bright, multi colored fuzzy boa constrictor from a stand later on in revenge, tossing it around his neck when he's distracted. He scowls and tugs it off immediately as she doubles over laughing at her new screensaver.

Dennis dangles the plush toy in front of a passing Chihuahua who leaps up and makes better use of it much to the amusement of the dog's owner.

"That was almost five bucks!" Casey mock gasps. 

"And you've made that dog very happy."  
  
They take the Boxer's Trail, moving deeper into the lush forest. They pass a few people jogging and biking but after a while there's little to no one venturing out deeper as the sun goes down. She can believe that they're the only ones out there.  
  
There's a long, narrow bridge a few feet ahead and Casey runs over to it with a small stream running underneath it.  
  
"Careful!" he calls out.  
  
She hoists a foot on and over the arm of the bridge, straddling it and takes out a switchblade, flicking the knife open and stabbing it into the wood.  
  
"I don't think you're supposed to do that."  
  
Casey snorts. "Oh, golly," she says in a high, nasally voice, "I guess I better put this away."  
  
"Funny."  
  
"Wood carving is an art," Casey says.  
  
"What are you writing?"  
  
"Exit pursued by Smokey Bear," she chuckles to herself. "And then a little fire emblem at the bottom because- oh, c'mon, that's funny!" she protests as Dennis shakes his head.  
  
She grumbles halfheartedly as she finishes her work, pleased by the results. Jumping off, Casey offers the blade to Dennis, hilt first.  
  
"You know you want to," she goads him for a full on minute before he caves in.  
  
"What are you sketching?" she immediately asks.  
  
Giving her a wary, funny sort of look Dennis moves in front of her to block her view. She tries to use his shoulder for leverage to peer over him but he hunches over, further blocking her view.  
  
Casey huffs in annoyance after a minute of attempting to sneak a peek. "Very mature!"  
  
It's not long after that Dennis steps back allowing her to see. She rolls her eyes at the quotation marks around the sentence she's written before spotting the additional work he's added.  
  
Right under the quote and above the fire symbol he's carved an indentation and following it, "Shakesbeare," Casey snorts and leans back against the bridge. "Well said, Shakesbeare."  
  
A ghost of smile comes and goes on his face. "I used to come here all the time."  
  
Perking up at that bit of information, Casey stops her mutilation and looks out to the view. "My dad took me here, I don't remember much but there was this super old, wooden slide that I went down about a hundred times one day."  
  
"The Giant Wooden Slide at Smith Memorial...it's here on the east end."  
  
Casey grins with recognition. "Yeah, that's it!"  
  
Dennis hums. "We should visit again soon and go by there."  
  
"So, who would take you? Your mom?"  
  
Dennis shakes his head. "I would take the train and hop on a bus here as often as I could on my own."  
  
"How old were you?" She couldn't imagine a tiny Dennis catching the bus and going to the park, she'd figured he would've been more of a stay-at-home kind of kid, but she doesn't know just how terrible that home might have been.  
  
"Around seven or eight?"  
  
"What were your favorite spots?"  
  
Dennis pauses in contemplation. "Anywhere that was busy, where I didn't have to talk or be noticed but I didn't have to be alone."  
  
"You didn't mind getting dirty?"  
  
Dennis shrugs. "I didn't necessarily go rolling in dirt. Besides, the reward of being out there in the quiet and by myself- I didn't mind a little mud."  
  
"So you had a place that was kind of like my fire escape?"  
  
Dennis pulls a face. "The exact opposite of that death trap."  
  
Casey laughs. "You make a good point. I guess I never came here because it reminds me too much of that one memory with my dad. My uncle took me once but...it wasn't the same," she shrugs.  
  
"We'll make some new memories then."  
  
Casey hops back on the bridge and settles behind him, reaching out to grab his shoulders and pull him back. She wraps her arms around his chest as he leans back between her legs, crossing his arms and hooking an ankle around his foot.  
  
They stay there, both lost in their own world, listening to the rush of water beneath them, the odd sound of a bird flapping its wing or conversing, the rustle of leaves in the cool, night breeze. It was all too easy to lean  him and forget about the outside world and of its problems, or that he'd refused to return her kiss that morning.  
  
Breaking the silence, Casey presses her mouth close to his ear, whispering. "Are you hot?"  
  
Dennis shivers, but he makes no move to move out of her grasp. "No."  
  
Smirking, Casey rests her chin on his shoulder. It was an innocent enough question with them both being dressed in a few layers. "Do you have a tattoo somewhere you're not telling me?"  
  
"That's...no."  
  
Frowning, Casey ponders. "You don't sound too sure. It's embarrassing, isn't it? Is it a face portrait of Kanye West or something?"  
  
"Kanye- what, no, I don't have a tattoo," Dennis hastily responds, pauses, leans to the side to stare at her calculatingly. "Do you?"  
  
"No." Dennis cranes his neck, eyeing her suspiciously and - she notices, satisfyingly - heat creeping up his neck.

"I don't!" She says.  
  
"I didn't say anything."  
  
"Your face did."  
  
He turns to face front again, she watches him suspiciously. "What about my face?" he asks in that dry, stone faced sort of way that never fails to make her want to smile or laugh, that intimidating sort of humor where you'd have to know the person to understand.  
  
"It's-" Casey has a few teasing jabs up  sleeve but they don't make it out as she takes a moment to really look at him, getting lost in the blue pool of his expressive eyes, contrasting with the lines of experience etched on his face. She wonders the stories people see when they look at him, pass him by on the street when he's lost in thought or scowling angrily or smiling. She hopes they're as interesting and full of layers and kind as the man himself.  
  
They allow a small moment to examine each other unashamedly, without motive.  
  
"So..." Casey clears her throat. "This tattoo of yours, it's like...an egg or something, right? An beloved ode to Humpty Dumpty-"  
  
Dennis rolls his eyes. "If you're referring to me I am neither humpty nor dumpty."  
  
"Fine. Humpy Dumpy," she says ignoring his unamused look, "with glasses...sitting on a...wall!"  
  
Casey shrieks as Dennis clutches her waist, pulling her down with a spin. He keeps his arms around her, strong and steady even after her feet touches the ground. Before she can think twice about it, Casey captures his mouth in a kiss, her fingers twisting nervously into his shirt.

Dennis makes a small noise of surprise, his hands squeezing her waist reflexively but the rest of him freezes, waiting to see what she does next. So she kisses him again, the soft press of her lips on his making her dizzy. He exhales brokenly, tickling her skin.

Her tongue darts out to taste in a way she's seen him do out of habit hundreds of times, driving her crazy. She leans into the kiss and he gives, crumbling under the slow, persistent slide of her lips and roaming hands.  
  
She's too nervous to push her hands under his layers of clothing, to feel the hot, firm body that was above her last night. Afraid that any wrong move would spook him. Frustrated that he won't do anything about it, taking away the only touch she's never flinched from.

As if he can read her mind, Dennis breaks the kiss, breathing uneven as he indulgently slides his hands up and down her sides before stepping back apologetically.

A new possibility comes to mind as to why he might have reason to put distance between them. The moment the thought appears she wants to shake it away as superficial. But it stays, lodged into the forefront of her mind with increasing dread.  
  
"I thought a lot about getting a tattoo," she  continues where they left off, slightly out of breath. "Something cool but also simple. Like constellations with a backdrop of different colored stars. I was thinking black and green gas for space. With blue and red for the stars, and yellow-orange for the constellations." Biting her lip. "Something to cover my scars," she tells him in a slow, self conscious voice. Her hand moves instinctively to her stomach.  
  
Dennis stares at her, mouth parting open in shock. "Scars? Where?"  
  
Casey feels her mouth pulling down into a deep frown, confusion and worry weighing her down on the spot. "You didn't see or...feel them," she says with some disgust, "when we..."  
  
Dennis shakes his head, suddenly serious. "What scars?"  
  
Casey moves her sweater up first, and then the thin, gray sweatshirt underneath. She hesitates. "Oh..." she  awkwardly, heat creeping up her face. "I thought maybe that you saw or felt them and you didn't..."  
  
"Let me see."  
  
Dennis takes a step closer but Casey shifts back, overwhelming horror of a scenario where he sees them and looks away in disgust. There are too many, too large and dark and ugly. More than that, what happens when she becomes older. Will he not want her anymore?  
  
Casey shoves her sweater back down and wraps her arms around herself. "Nevermind it's..."  
  
"Casey."  
  
"No," she repeats with force this time, inwardly wincing at the rise in her voice. "I don't want to," she says softer.  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Can we go now?"  
  
"Yeah. Okay."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teenage angst in high gear with a 90's soundtrack in the background. Rumors and first relationships and indifferent adults all rolled into one chapter.


End file.
